The leaves form a shade (a dead mobile)
Hanging over the heads
Of the pedestrians,
Who don’t even notice
That summer’s beauty has been
Stiffened; summer’s leaves
Are falling as if they were
Birds soaring too close to the sun
And so fall down in loneliness.
It is as if orchards are dying high up
In space; as if star orchards have
Lost their weight, and so fall resignedly
On the head of the earth. But
Something is holding all of this falling up,
Isn’t it?