The yellow birch tree quivers
    from the sudden ambush
    of twittering kinglets flitting
    noisily from fenced-in trees
    at the wood’s edge: it relieves
    me of an ennui I have nursed
    with the frigid gust of an early
    equinox. I shrugged: Leaves
    returning to shorn branches.

    The moving colour burst jolts
    me out of the gloomy confines
    of a hell I created out of cabin
    doldrums and infernal rainfall.
    How can all this beauty waylay
    this grim desire to find a still
    point whence I could abandon
    a plague of hoarded loneliness?

    I must get out to catch myself
    a dream: Where has it gone,
    that bright touch of memory?
    How can I lead it out, set free?
    A hapless Orpheus who must
    not look back at my Euridyce
    come back from doom? I turn
    around to look at the birds,
    but the tree is still and green.

    — Albert B. Casuga

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