Great minds spill too much for the beauty
Found in autumn, for the brilliance that they see;
Lively colors fall from yellow wood,
Though nothing looks off from the places they've stood.
Compromised in oil paintings, dreams
Of a world so full of light, as if each beam
Was sent to remind us that truth is
Beauty, life is vibrant, so they'd wish it seen.

But I find truth in charcoal and lead,
in a landscape that no artists ever paint,
where naked limbs are on the way to dead,
Creaking in the cold, iced wind. When gray, not red
shines drearily, and the pasture's bare
no blaze, fire we cannot see out there.