It was one evening
In an autumn
When bells hung in a vast
And yet most intricate design
From the webs of araucaria,
Trees that are not trees easily,
The little leaves
That are trees in secret.

Under one bough,
One vein of one leaf,
One side of the sea
Sang for a thousand inches
Uphill, as though
The tree in the leaf in the sea
Were sorry for being human
And wanted to run back
Across a river
In the center of America
Into the arms of an old beard,
Butterfly of ashes,
Architect of spiders
Climbing up the long
Slag heap to gain
The crumbling pinnacle and spin
One strand of his body to join
The earth to one star anyway,
And maybe save it.

The leaves of the little
Secret trees are fallen,
And where the earth goes on spinning
I don't know.