Autumn Movement

I cried over beautiful things
knowing no beautiful thing lasts.

The field of cornflower yellow
is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman,
the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.

The northwest wind comes,
and the yellow is torn full of holes,

new beautiful things
come in the first spit of snow
on the northwest wind, and

the old things go,
not one lasts.