The Modesty of the Earth

The Earth undresses in the Morning breeze
and I catch the leaves as the Summer leaves.
This falling blazonry, these bunting reds
by Autumn’s horn are blown to shreds
to lie forlornly on the ice-green lawn,
the raiment of a Goddess, now outworn.
Such heraldry and pageant: “Let it go!”
She sings in verses only catchers know,
“My garment shall adorn the barren ground…”
Her gown falls silently ever down
in slow procession of its motley hues
which, one by one, her modesty must lose.

The Leaves

The leaves of autumn
last till spring,
till summer, even.
Between young flowers,
they lie:
old flames chilled
by the change of seasons.
Had I an alien eye,
I might believe
that leaves
as decayed as these
were signs of spring
and pick them,
one by one,
to warm my home
with their fiery hues
and wonder why
they never die
but simply fade

away.