willow poem

I ran across a poem by William Carlos Williams (a physician who also happened to be a poet, or maybe a poet who also happened to be a physician) and it seemed perfect for the season. Willow Poem, by William Carlos Williams, August 1920:

It is a willow when summer is over,
a willow by the river
from which no leaf has fallen nor
bitten by the sun
turned orange or crimson.
The leaves cling and grow paler,
swing and grow paler
over the swirling waters of the river
as if loth to let go,
they are so cool, so drunk with
the swirl of the wind and of the river --
oblivious to winter,
the last to let go and fall
into the water and on the ground.