Brown, All of the Autumn

Brown, all of the autumn, the manners of time

traditional, my mother walks to church

yielding the golden function, as she climbs

by sunny bannisters up to the porch

brass of the old God's office, as I wait

for nothing lovelier than a leaf like butterfly

to settle with yellow wing on the windy street

before my passage, till she catches my eye

and scolds me for my slowness. Pardon, God,

my absentmindedness across Your door,

and pardon death that comes so twinkle-toed

to this leaf on Your concrete floor.

FELIX STEFANILE