Each leaf rolls its drops
into one fat bead,
each bead tries to gutter away
into the pointless stem,
each leaf bucks it back to raise
her neck against the sun again.
Thrush in the throat,
thrush in the wood,
thrush in the crawling soil --
the song begins when the leaf gives up,
and the slow bead falls,
and the poisoned fire, arm under arm,
climbs down to the waiting crowd.
in response to this Morning Porch post.