Peter Munro
Elegy For What Falls

Wringing the first hints of crimson from each leaf,
a northerly strikes the maple, a timbrel
singing in a tempo more relentless than grief.

Winged seeds flutter, sail up in a whirl. No prayer
rises as gracefully. The whole earth trembles
as the seeds crash to soil and ruddy leaves flare.

Toadstools breach detritus, surfacing to air
gills burdened by spores. They nudge tiny temblors,
rippling a rhythm more ancient than despair.

My insignificance comforts me. I tell
the news: a sparrow falls like a seed. Tumbled
through bell-clear air, its ringing feathers dispel,

attenuating in an empty temple.
Let the maple bleed until its leaves crumple.