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| Holding their leaves |
In the company of oaks,
bright-bronzed and taller
than the lowering sun,
slow dancing in the chill wind,
last trees in the woods still awake,
holding their leaves
when most of the others
have turned themselves
into pillars of light,
the oaks holding their leaves
as if their lives depended on it,
sighing in honeyed light,
holding their leaves
close to their bones,
loving what is mortal
while they can,
and when the time comes,
letting it go.
—after Mary Oliver's In Blackwater Woods
