Beneath the ragged edge of fall,
lagging leaves stain the mossed sidewalks.
Weary, wet, intractable, they’ve lost
the lyric tint of cherry, maple, plum;
the beat of alder, oak, and elm.
They’ll fossil on concrete unless
some poet rakes them into lasting lines
like Letters spelling ‘death’ are not a death
or Nothing is forever just itself.