Cloudy, primal green floods
the canvas, superimposed
with a scarlet maple
and sepia poplar leaf
upright as rooted trunks.
A trinity—three seasons—
death closest.
Stages of cancer—yours IV
when found near Easter.
You died in the height
of fall. Everywhere the stab
of color, the crunch underfoot,
the must of decay. Even weeds
along the freeway translated
to beauty, all repellent.