This is November
where,
left by whining winds
and raging rains,
a sparse scattering
of leaves cling wetly,
like yellow rags to twig and bough.
the russet and the orange gems
no longer crisply crackle
underfoot.
Rain water glues them to the path
and there they stay.
But drier leaves
whisked by the playful blast
rise up and dance
across the grass
where true gold can be found.
The elegant alder
holds out her skirts and
shows her stubby roots.
Burnt umber beads
bedeck her twigs
her nut-like autumn fruit.
Small puddles
at the pavement's edge
deep, deep within them lie
the waving boughs and tangled trees
and dark November skies.
