Not the white flakes mounded
in soft drifts on picture post cards
but the brown blizzard of oak leaves
cascading from their stems,
pushed into the void by new life
surging up through every twig.
They cloud the air in windy whirls,
settling on anything immobile.
The earth turns blotchy with them
like some shedding animal,
clogging gutters, paving roads
in a sumptuous display of ruin.
Plastic bags stuffed with them
are stacked like somber pillows
at the edge of every yard, waiting
for disposal trucks.
