The waterwheel
has seen fresh rain
and turns until
it quits the mill,
and joins the sunny stream,
the waters do not judge
its rusted nails and mold:
such joy in growing old!
The wheel has turned and now the leaves
have opened on their fiery show;
the world must move, those flame-drops fall
and tell the ground of coming snow.
My skin grows pale and shall be paper-like,
my leafless bones sing moldy creaking songs:
I fear, but now I see the coming rain,
and turn and grow and fall in rivers long.