November in the Park
Oak leaves are the last to fall.
They skitter up and down the sidewalk,
clutter the dormant fountains,
fly updrafts past dull statues
that reflect pale sunlight filtered through thin clouds;
they climb the roof to a bell tower
streaked with green patina across once-shining copper clothing.
The maples and birch and ash long ago dropped their color,
their leaves swept away,
leaving the field to these boorish brown intruders.
The oak stays loaded with more volleys,
ready to drop another round that gets underfoot.
Soon the white carpet will arrive
and bury these drab epilogues to autumn.