The trees let go
the bigger leaves,
un-collected, collected into
staggering piles, the street long, windless.
I watch the sky turn to nothing,
lighter, lost definition, the
sun dropping, burning pure
hoar-frosted white.
And the birds do come flying
a leeward “V” nonetheless locomotive
across and over the bend
in the river, the given levee, the
flooded fields.
As the certainty of December is given,
a chill without sweetness here, the streets
abandoned as ever, so we are separate,
fifty degrees from months ago.
And yes, Emile,
the trees are losing their clothes.
But this is the time to let her go.
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