The Winds of Autumn
Leaves blow against the house,
into blind corners by the stairs,
on the back porch to cover
an ordered disarray like mud
and dirt-green crackled drifts.
There is nothing in this loose foliage
of the tones sought by artists
and photographers - no red, yellow,
lime, or the orange that only
seems to come round at Halloween.
These soiled leaves pile umber
and common brown as if ready
in this burning season for body bags,
each leaf the color of sand drifts
and khaki soaked with dried blood.
This winter grips maple and alder
forests tight and will not give way
until each grimy leaf is a shredded,
broken memory like the promises
so lightly made the spring before,
when even cracked limbs seemed
to avoid the fall to widow-maker
and we remembered autumn's leaves
were yellow, orange and blood red.
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