Are the leaves embarrassed by this sudden change
from serviceable green to gaudy red and gold?
All those colors clanging in the wind: copper,
bronze, brass. And when they all fall down
will the empty branches miss them? Or are they
comforted by the feathery touch of birds,
their pale claws and tiny beaks? In the meadow,
the goldenrod is waving goodbye, nodding
above the bracken, the pearly everlasting.
The corn’s already been taken; only stalks
and stubble remain. This is the season
of diminishing returns. And what will we do
with that hour we gain when the clocks turn
back? Will it rattle in our pocket, empty
as the moon?