Autumn on a Small Tree
from Expectation Days
I grew to offer almost anything in public.
But that valor--
abashment will track it down; I've wanted
razors for some meant
display of awe. And spontaneity
pooling of reflections,
talented to drown.
I don't know if the tree,
its fifth autumn,
still tenses with surprise.
Or becomes kinder
--that sometimes saves one--
befriends the imperceptive air.
But there is no more privacy finally.
The tree tries the first yellows it thinks of,
then revises, revises, in front of all.
I think I've seen it let
the leaves it hasn't grown yet