Just Fallen Leaves, Athens, Georgia, USA

Running at 70, years, not mph —
my vision sharp for tripping points
on this vanilla-ice frosted
Thanksgiving day. Last night’s
hard freeze has me looking down, not up.
It robbed local hardwoods of their
color swatches — leaves now a geometric collage
atop a concrete canvas:
magenta to crimson to lemon, to umber.
As late afternoon sun sautés
the sidewalk, my steps fade to a slow lope in
fear not of flying but falling,
which I suppose is
slow, unassisted flight.
Eyes downward, savoring
the Fauvism of this leafy patchwork quilt,
I imagine the soft touch of wind
slowly undressing the tree’s torsos,
reminding me of how we made love when
you returned from California last Tuesday.

Gary D. Grossman

Last Stanza Poetry Review #18

October 2024