Autumn Ivy

Each leaf: a bright jewel, a hot coal

If orchards, they are ripe
If celebrations, brief

Two weathered ones are mottled
brown and green

They are broad wings gliding down
the hanging scroll

Hawks on a thermal

Soon we will sit by the window and watch
blue shadows

lengthen along the snowy fields

When he knew he was dying, he gestured
into the sky, his voice

a hoarse brushwork, wistful

I have always worked hard—why?