The red leaves turning over
so high in the maple trees
bled out
the last days of summer,
staining the cold ground
with warm colors
of once living things.
The sky opens
like a sacred colander
and the water sifts down,
just enough
every morning
for these colors to gush
just a little more,
swishing over the grains
and the grout of cement sidewalks;
Over the curbs, onto the streets—
past all the places
where we place our feet.
Eventually, these colors become so thin,
that their translucence takes on the gray
of fish skins, reflecting market neon light.
Those maple trees, though,
stay bare and brown,
like charred skeletons;
Waiting on the bleak landscape,
like a man who is lost,
standing to be discovered again
or else allow age
to chop him down.

written on 10/30/2010 by: Matt Kane