Dave Bonta's poem is a series of small glimpses from a walk through autumn woods, set down as separate, quiet observations. We see tall, straight trees, and among them an old grapevine curving like a grave accent, a mark that looks like a tiny slanted stroke over a letter. Then come the last white asters, weak sunlight, and witch hazel just starting to put out its thin, ray-like flowers. Even the green of the Christmas fern at the end seems to belong to spring.
The speaker mostly watches rather than comments, and that restraint is part of the feeling. The one line that steps back to say something general, "the woods are darkest / just before the fall," plays on the word "fall" as both the season and the leaves coming down. The mood is hushed and attentive, with a gentle sadness at things ending. But the poem also notices what lingers or begins, like the blooming witch hazel and the stubborn green fern, so the sense of loss is mixed with quiet surprise.