Fall into Winter
The wreckage of the season lies in its leftovers.
Brown leaves with edges curled and yellow leaves
spotted with black circles cast shadows
in puddles adorned with curves of oil slicks spilled
from cars on this country road’s one pothole.
The brilliant reds from gum and oak now lie forlorn
in the field, dulled and placed grudgingly into a
patchwork quilt over a beige, wispy background of weeds.
The black bull, slime dripping from his nose, and his
brown and black companions have left us for shelter.
These are quiet backgrounds for a solitary time.
The waiting has begun, and soon this valley
will be cover in ice and snow, and dead leaves will disappear.
He brings kindling and split wood through the back door,
and the fiery hot furnace opens up to receive the gift
and to leave soot on his nose as we await winter’s arrival.
