It is lonesome the birch in the autumn with leaves
in the colours of worry, in yellow, brown, red,
as if thinking the world wants it done, wants it dead,
as if thinking to much or to good what it gives.
But the proud look betrays it. Though taken aback
to let go of the summer it will and the lack
of acknowledgement God will make up for by snow
which explains it as cherished and covers with love.