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 being 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 snow-slush 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 your leaving life renewed.

Carl Estrin