The leaves are changing color.
A sudden wind makes them fall.
Yellow. Red. Brown. They fill the air,
they cover the ground, they bury each other.
It’s upsetting that the growing season
should end, that the fullness should shrivel.
The trees may be skeletal and scratch
the length of the winter, but they are alive
and will return to their task of creation in
the spring, though it is far too early
to hunt for groundhogs or other augers.
Spring will return, though it may take many years.
I collect the leaves. As many as I can. And store them
in books, to love in the long dark by the light of stolen candles.