A single crimson maple leaf
falls to pavement. It’s an alchemy: product
of sun’s fire & earth. Others follow.
A granny-smith green, mottled
a bold & eerie chartreuse,
the same shade as a caterpillar’s
slinking back—before it blooms
into monarch. Simply because.
There’s nothing
to make of these trees, they do
as trees do.
Each has called up the earth
through xylem & phloem,
called to its roots, demanded
what is rich. Pure desire
kissed to light.
The tree mixes minerals
& sun, converts the elements into life.
Nothing more. (Sun? What element is sun?)
We can conjecture
all we want about trees
& people
but the living feels good.
The bright on my back
on this cool autumn day
as I watch that red photosynthesizer slit the air
to scar. I miss it already.
But here, clean of smog, the city.
Rubbed shiny by a crisp dry front
that whisked summer away
In all its heavy glory. It is good,
this breaking from the earth’s tilt
towards heavy, & so I do what is good.
I wake up early for the silence
of these trees & once in them
they change something in me too.