For Linda

For Linda Look! The woods are greening And the hands of trees are weaving A tapestry of color from the South.

There is no describing with your mouth, How utterly all things are changed, Since you, leaf litter, last the forest ranged.

The subtle surface has been all repaved.

But down below the mushroom's tendrils, There lies many a grave. The mandibles Of death are almost always chewing What the winter's ax was hewing, When the snow­slush made its pools.

Yet, the seasons turn like spools And bring again life's labors green And blue, where not an eye can see.

Thus is our leaving life renewed.

Carl Estrin