The best treats of the season
come in gold and amber and
sienna and bronze and pumpkin orange.
From the window, the porch, the
table where we bless our bread,
we watch them age, each one
an old woman or man wrinkling
at the edges, brittle to the
touch and paper-thin like
ancient skin over knuckle and bone.
They turn and turn and turn
and fall all in a heap
at the base of their trees
or else scattered across the lawn,
into the gutter, wet like tissue
decoupaged to the street. In the
afternoon, we bring in our dead
in wide arcs that leave nothing
behind but brown grass, bare earth,
and the naked skeleton of a
root uncovered. Someone finds a marble,
an army guy forgotten outside the
week before, a red-stained Popsicle
stick left over from last summer.