Last weekend, as fall slipped away, I paused. Where had the color gone? Everyday noise, as well as high winds and heavy rains in late October and early November, had blinded me to the season’s leaf watch. I revisited a poem posted two years ago: “Fall Leavings.” The title seemed to skimp on the details of the passing days, so I renamed it, thankful for the beauty just outside my door—if I choose to see it.
Canada comes,
cooling the Blue Ridge leaf by leaf.
Bronze, copper, and scarlet flame
while the morning moon burns white in blue.
Umber splotches rosy dogwood leaves,
and birds snatch at candy-berry clusters;
my face upturns to catch the sun’s glow
through lidded eyes.
The wind stirs twigs and branches,
brushing leaves back and forth,
and a dry rain falls.
Early frost pales the trees and
thins chirping, buzzing, whirring
call-and-response night song.
I mourn the rasping choir
and look for the farmer’s geese,
snowy flecks in a browning field.
But he has sold them,
and the pasture gate swings, half-open.
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