‘Neath trees, forlorn, and turning pale,
In twilight’s deepening, early shroud,
I train my voice, though quiet and bowed,
My warm hands ‘twixt garments frail.

A thousand thoughts, the river’s tale
Of days spent scribbling idle cheer,
No talent shown, but a cross it seems,
Their ebb and flow in sorrow’s vale.

Faint and wet, the words unveil
From pens, as steps do strain and tire,
‘Twixt tiles, stained with russet fire,
The waiting’s sweet, no cream to hail.

Yet, oft it wounds, this slow travail,
As time and tedium deceive
How oft our spirits grieve,
And like yellowing trees, I grow frail.

I dwell ‘twixt veils of whitewashed walls,
Or hours past, or so it seems,
Where no glass now doth catch the gleams
As beneath its shroud, I crawl

Towards a grim and dismal hall,
I shun the thought, as if the neck
Would lighten in the walking trek
To leave the shadow, somber pall.

Thus, I return, to gaze anew
On lives resolved with greater grace,
And carry glances, stowed in place,
‘Neath eyes that show how choices rue.

Indeed, the winter takes its due;
Autumn’s brief as November’s rains,
Though cold winds bring the winter’s strain,
And I slide through leaves and sleet’s faint hue.

In this crucible of toil’s stew
Where I cannot cleanse my woe
As the Arno’s flood doth overflow,
Perhaps, for thirty years, I rue.

Perchance I am too foolish, too,
To fear the pains and losses dire,
Too long within myself to tire,
As autumn yields to winter’s view.

Marco Delrio

Yellowing Trees

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