Pigweed and Thistle

Up in the spruce and aspen,
The softer underbrush dies
Down to the ground for winter.

Odd, how expected changes
Are satisfying as much
As melancholy. It’s not

Faith in the return of spring
Alone that makes fall almost
Triumphant. It’s fall itself—

The more on time the better,
The more relief you still know
Something about the future,

Dead leaves and stems covering
Your wintry knowledge you don’t.