october

october

the weeds are stiff how

fragile the bits

have become,

how short

from the open palms

of seed pods

summer is lifting into

the same wind that will

carry the first flake

don't say it's wind only—

I've seen August

sway the oaks

from side to side

and almost to the earth

and still, the leaves

have held

it takes a voice

deep in the sockets

to tell the stems,

release

and

there is always

that one leaf

the last to leave

that will heed

no word but snow