The little quince tree
Is rustling it’s leaves
Beside our window
Bright and green,
Shivering in the late
September breeze,
It’s thin limbs weighed
With fruit long shed
Of spring fur.

How many days have we laid?
It’s dark thin arms
Leaning out to us,
Like those of the street sellers
Along the mountain road

How long watching the sun sink
Below the terracotta roofs?
The fruits hardening,
Ripening, spoiling
On the vine.