A mortal circle of leaves,
crimson, the maple tree

    bent down, a diviner,

knee-deep in its own
  dry rattle. A massacre.

   How could we have

missed it, even distracted
  as we are, dumbfounded,

  stitching a handkerchief,

a tulle skirt, each seam
  what we saw when our gaze

  went astray, mortal (again),

as you would say, a bridge
 too far, though not without

  its small mercies—a little

folderol, the lion faces
  of the pansies, the umber

  moths fanned embers

in the beech tree. Where there’s
   water, there’s water,

 where there’s air, air—

this morning, the flame bush
   aglint, a chandelier

  of ice, the water brackish

in the coiled hose, a rat
 gnawing the wooden spoons.

 When is enough enough?

I am where my fancies
 take me, I am not what

   I am—the blackened maple

burning its leaves, the jackdaws
  circling, the moth’s wing charred,

   beating and beating.