Here in the dark I cannot see
the yellow of the maple tree.
Leaves holding tight, while I awaken.
Dying leaves, crisp as bacon.
Leaves that love to beam their light
certainly must hate this night.
A night of heavy sirens, fiercely free
a scare for such a gentle tree.
In Carolina, autumn likes to preen.
Trees are yellow, red, bare, and green.
But it’s also got its sneaky side.
A loss of value. That downward market slide.
An elder dogwood, such a lovely thing
has dropped its bark, will not bloom this spring.
And all along the sleeping street
sleepers think of loss with every beat
hoping longer nights can make the mind forget
what in the light will be dead, or living yet.