One Last Autumn Poem

Alatus
by Richard Wilbur

Their supply-lines cut,
The leaves go down to defeat,
Turning, flying, but

Bravely so, the ash
Shaking from blade and pennon
May light's citron flash;

And rock maple, though
Its globed array be shivered,
Strews its fallen so

As to mock the cold,
Blanketing earth with earnest
Of a summer's gold.

Still, what sumac-gore
Began, and rattling oak shall
End, is not a war;

Nor are leaves the same
(Though May come back in triumph),
Crumpled once by flame.

This time's true valor
Is a rash consent to change,
To crumbling pallor,

Dust, and dark re-merge.
See how the fire-bush, circled
By a crimson verge

Of its own sifting,
Bristles aloft its every
Naked stem, lifting

Beyond the faint sun,
Toward the hid pulse of things, its
Winged skeleton.