That year by William Stafford

The last year I was your friend, they fell for days “headlong flaming down”-the leaves, I mean.
Aspens heard the news.
On the deck the birdseed sprouted-blue and brown and rose: two evening grosbeaks came, trim and ordered, quiet colored, like marines.
We stood each alone: the grass had found a tide but we felt none.
When they hurt enough, we let them out-the words, I mean-and let them trigger our tongues till they lugered a million times, like a drum, till the world reversed and leaped, after its good name.
But sunset frisked us for anything dry or warm, and that year we stood alone: the grass had found a tide but we felt none.
That year when I was your friend-in words, I mean-I was afraid.
Despite our care we heard the news.
It was more than words.
Persuaded like the grass, we felt the tide
at last: we knew before we were told, and we shook as the aspens did, from a storm inside the world.

My favorite poem by William Stafford