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.