There's a red tree surrounded
by green. I watch this tree carefully
now. In the morning it stands orange;
in the evening gold vermilion.
I ask myself,
why burn a deeper shade
for the coming night?
Everyday I walk under this tree,
but only now do I think:
it doesn't stand out in the spring,
summer, or winter. It's a fall tree
because its leaves
die the most beautifully.