Tart up death-facing man all you can,
in autumn he stands alone.
His pathetic gong (he served in the ranks)
swings on its orange ribbon.
For its no-camouflage tunic in the woods,
I pity the aspen tree.
This is some alien string I’ve touched,
alien vestment for me.
Imitation, of course! But can you recall,
where it’s from, of whom?
Reflected tree in a deep forest pool:
is that sort of stealing, too?
But reflection must also be imitation,
immersion of boughs into dark.
Just as the naked aspen’s vibration
is imitated by my red heart.