In the Forest
Linda Pastan

The trees are lit
from within like Sabbath candles
before they are snuffed out.
Autumn is such a Jewish season,
the whole minor key of it.
Hear how the wind trembles
through the branches, vibrato
as notes of cello music.
Notice the tarnished coppers
and browns, the piles of leaves
just waiting for burning.
Though birds are no longer
in hiding, though children in bright
scarves are kicking the leaves,
I smell the smoke
and remember winter.
Praise what is left.