Leaves: detritus of sorrel and cinnamon on the cobblestones; 

the withered foliage is char dark like rye bread; the life shavings (leaves) of an ancient sugar maple litter colonial pumpkin brick like vintage papyrus; The Victorian gingerbread houses are frosted with deciduous magic.

The fallen leaves are angels,

bronzed scions of the Dead Sea scrolls; 

they’re brined in a colubrine vat of time, like another lifetime.

They make a crunchy brunette fricassee, sounding their crisp Tibetan bells for equinox.

Acorns and obelisk shadows compost next to sundried ivy; By the fountain, dusk casts claret and rose liquor on the fallen wild apples: 

little rotund, fawn-brown things that are small and juicy like Logan berries.

Hoarfrost saranwraps clouds, 

and tall thin panes of perennial heliotrope shatter the deciduous sky; grainy bruised pear, 

purple orchid and plum blossom 

drip 

from the fork-tongued wind; ripe, red dahlias make artisanal vineyard spirits out of July’s tepid memories.

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