A poem about a weeping birch tree losing its summer glory as autumn begins.
Dappled frieze of speckles, gold and green,
Swaying in the autumn breeze
Delicately pressed pennies, lace-worked in burnished light
Dressed still in summer's gleam,
Holding on to their last vestiges of verdant sheen.
Lustrous, flickering, frivolous, bright
Filigree of lace-like leaves,
Dancing against an ice-blue sky, cloud-free.
Autumn at her elegant best, kissing the brow of summer's rest.
Madame Birch, if I may be so bold, where do you hide your silver
Beneath your cloak of green and gold?
Or will your precious secret remain forever hidden in its folds?