an idyll of falling
drifting unmoored
from growing inlets
of October sky
must include the un-
remastered original
bright blue lightly
frosted weather
and a village nestled
against a mountain
the newly resurfaced road
that dead-ends at a trailhead
so the dog-walkers
can drive to the woods
so a canine snout can track
each falling leaf
while its human puzzles
over arborglyphs on a snag
where larvae came of age
and left the tree as beetles
after completing
their masterpieces
yes of course the foliage
in every shade of flame
sic transit gloria mundi
on a Tuesday afternoon
where death is life
for the leaf duff
a universe with
its own laws
inhabited by iron worms
and crescent moon millipedes
woodland jumping mice
and the shy timber rattler
basking in the middle
of a multi-use trail
its dark velvet scales
its electric buzz
covering for
a quiet getaway
through dry leaves in which
the wind also rustles
as if it were already
gray November
and dogs had noses
only for frozen gut piles
but already the deer
are hounded by lust
scrape away fallen leaves
in an agony of longing
until even the soil
speaks their name
a lexicon of scents
to which the pines contribute
losing hands
of five needles
for even evergreens
yellow with age
and the wind has
such a discriminating touch
while the oaks of course
take their sweet time
drop acorns before turning
in a depth of sky
not seen since April flowers
began spewing pollen
but if nature’s last green
is also gold
hasn’t the whole summer
been a false flag operation
and how can true colors
not intoxicate
whether burgundy or rosé
pale ale or amber
let blue jays steal the cry
of a red-tailed hawk
who’s otherwise occupied
wallowing in black and white
feathers of
an answered prayer
