Spear of goldenrod
pompom of mm
flutes of the cicada.
Then legions of leaves
rustling in the ranks
gilded for the last dive.
Suns of the rising son
that from a blue banner whipped
splash bugle/bright.

Why this bluster of beauty
this bunting over of necessity?

When no one sees, do leaves
turn to fumble at their stems
clutching for green?
Do they struggled against their glory
or sink like saints into the flame?

Do willows bend the brook
to fling their little leaves
of last confetti, or to watch her
bathe their roots
support a limb
and brighten on her rounds
like a candy-striper in a nursing home.
And then, after the last bed check
do they rise
(as old women in darkening corridors
draped in careless gowns)
paint the check, bracelet the bone
and gather to a music heard only from memory?
Dancing like giggling girls
undressing at last.

A fling of the red rags
a dropping of hair
a rain of teeth yellow with age.
The old arthritic trunk, knobbed and naked
decked for November in a few last leaves
like a skeleton with earrings.
Blood rubies for the snow. (23)