Gratitude

It is too early for white bough, too late
For snows.  From out the hedge the wind lets fall
A few last flakes, ragged and delicate.
Down the stripped roads the maples start their small,
Soft, 'wildering fires.  Stained are the meadow stalks
A rich and deepening red.  The willow-tree
Is wooly.  In deserted garden-walks

Lizette Woodworth Reed