Eighty and five springs in leaf-ends later
She still finds her life a song , a number
Not numeric, but mere music and matter.
She can hear crickets’ music in lumber
Frog-lets croaking in night’s rain-puddle.
In autumn years perhaps you imagine
Her steeped in mixed aural sounds, in muddle
A vague spectacle of death in a life’s din.
In such music one hears yellow leaves crunch
As if they are the dress one wears for lunch.