The Unleaving
by Lorraine Riess
Even without the sun, the Norway maple,
a species now spurned, radiates red.
Sugar maples stand nearby
their dependable yellow turning to melon
and thinning. Pin oaks hold on
to their stubborn green.
The cherry, green all summer, journeys to maroon.
The white birch-her pale hearts have already swooned
to the ground, losing her will in a weeping drape.
I spend too much time absorbing their glory
Not tending to what needs doing.
But how much other doing is needed?
Their leaves drop gently, a last dance in the breeze,
A snap on the fulcrum of autumn and drift,
their dry patter sounding like rain.
And then it does rain.
Only cedar and spruce will stand green
through the winter, shouldering the snow.
But for today, this deciduous tribe,
all get along with their varied hues and habits
amenable to this acreage,
resilient in their acceptance of accidental
immigrants and the hopefuls planted
by my own hand, replacing ash trees
now blighted into memory.
As sadness is layered with many reasons
so comes the progress of this season,
while I position pumpkins and mums
on the porch, just so.
Just so.
