If I were to close my eyes,
I would see the leaves of autumn,
Upright on their stems and side by side
Like a phalanx of fallen heroes.
Myrmidons of the season,
Or so it seemed,
One morning when I was not looking,
Fringing the limbs of the maple
Like the rime of an old man's beard.
When I finally took notice,
There you were at my feet
In the darkness of an afternoon
When squirrels scratched their way home.