Distressed trees dot the neighborhood,
drop whole branches, not leaves.
Those will come—golden, burgundy and pumpkin.
Lawn crews will blow them to the curb
and city trucks will vacuum huge and expansive piles.
All so loud. I remember making leaf
mazes for my daughters as I raked the yard.
Their squeals and their tiny jackets.
When they were tired and went inside,
I’d muddle the maze and rake it into bags,
my cheeks reddened, hands cold, healthy
maples and oaks still letting go, piling on.