You Fall Leaf
The fall—its colors and smells—
and you, brown leaf, individuated
fell from your parent tree to rest
on bleak concrete.
Among your ruddy fellows,
among plastic bags,
gray safety pins,
and orange spray-painted glyphs,
the crisp sunlight curls you and
An academy of gray squirrels
bustle about you,
collecting their compulsions.
The eternity of summer’s greens
end for you.
Drivers in vans ignore you.
(They carry no cash.)
Will a black cackling crow peck you
to collect a twig?
Will you dance
at night, with a dirty plastic spoon?
Will a child add you
to a science project?
You, impermanent, will crumble:
the dust from whence you grew
will reclaim you, in time,
while you become
a significant insignificant
in the sights and smells of fall.