I've found an old notebook of things I wrote ages ago. I decided to revisit this one.
Step out in
the foggy gray.
The air smells
too sweet
of October's rotting
leaves.
As they lie in wet
molding heaps.
Dead puddles
sit at the curb
as more leaves
block the grate.
Trees stand bare
in huddle form.
Guarding each other
uselessly against
November's wind,
that makes this
morning's paper
fly like a huge
misshapen moth.
Yet, on one lonely
tree.
One cold lonely leaf
still clings.
Braving each new
breeze.
Waiting for it
to tear her free.
To join the
November leaves.
(originally written November, 1973)
