the winds of every other day

The winds of every other day

ease the movement of the season,

as trees darken themselves

and release yellow fans

into a spiraled drifting

to the ground, where

they await another gust,

or the steady repitition of a rake

to comb the yellow grass beneath,

and form collected mounds

in the yard or by the street.

The aromatic death of leaves
is sweet, like the end
preparing for the beginning
of something else.

The barrenness of an unsheathing tree,

once plumed in a rustling coat,

reveals the secrets behind it:

a cemetary I never saw before,

or a playground whose children

I heard, but could not find.