Statement in November

Pale yellow leaves of the oak In the cold of the year,
Bearing a drop of blood on your pulseless
bosoms: Deceit is here.
Leaves losing your grip and descending
Papery pale and slow:
It is an old plot to convince me that joy
departs And never returns.
I know.
But in early November with the leaves flapping
like birds In the face of the grey sky,
I throw back my head and laugh.
Oh I laugh Till the fallen fly.
For there is an intelligence of the heart Which cleaves despair,
Through and beyond, cleanly, as a ripe sycamore ball
Plunges through air. >