If I were to walk this way
⁠Hand in hand with Grief,
I should mark that maple-spray
⁠Coming into leaf.
I should note how the old burrs
⁠Rot upon the ground.
Yes, though Grief should know me hers
⁠While the world goes round,
It could not in truth be said
⁠This was lost on me:
A rock-maple showing red,
⁠Burrs beneath a tree.