When leaves fall, trees are stripped, branches are bare.
All left between the fractal twigs is air
Air that the trees, twigs, branches, shape and carve,
the finest knives and scalpels could not halve
and quarter them so well. The air is left
negative space. The trees may seem bereft
leafless; it is their loss that gives them power
power to be seen stark in an autumn shower
dark against clouds, and in the mirrors bold
etched studies in strong line. We stand and hold
their complex shapes, too branched to comprehend,
in our enfolded minds. And in the end
we know mirrors behind us hold them too
and hold us, multiplied, as mirrors do.