This autumn morning, after the freeze,
They held a summit of the trees.
Motions were made and seconded,
And all the ochre, brown, and red
Snowed down. Each ruined crown agrees:
Today is a day for obsequies.
And since the colors haven’t bled,
Our hill is a map of colonies
This autumn morning:
Ochre, the land of the hackberries;
Red, of the maple—geographies
That spur my daughter to grab her sled
And raise those nations of the dead,
Scorning and smearing their boundaries
This autumn morning.