On a Book of Poems

Penelope Russ

Thin leaves of autumn
Falling on a grave;
The man who wrote this book
Was brave.

Here is no trickery
Of silver clinking,
Only deep wisdom
And clear thinking.

Each poem is a leaf
Brittle and wan,
Crumbling earthward
In a frosty sun.

A hundred leaves falling
This man was brave indeed—
That loam may form, and one flower
May carry seed.