Not only fire 
but aspens, too, 
adorn the hills 
with golden crown.

Lend me a mirror 
that I might reflect this gold 
for my heart is like 
a barren branch.
Furnish me kindling 
that I might light a fire 
for my hearth is cold.

Golden leaves admit light 
unlike the patches of green aspen, 
shades drawn.

Last year, it was a maze 
of stubby trunks in the meadow 
where beavers had gnawed 
young aspen trunks.
But now the aspen in the meadow 
tower and chatter in the wind.

Oh, aspens, teach me your song. 
Tender me your voice.
Course in my veins that I might 
root, rest, rise with you,
and flame, fire, fall
like flint
that alights again.