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