“Come,” said the wind to the leaves one day.
“Come over the meadow with me and play.
Put on your dresses of red and gold,
for summer is over and days grow cold.”
This song came to me as I drove up I89 yesterday. My mother always sang it at this time of year. Trees seem to change their dresses daily, each costume deeper and more brilliant than the one before. The wind tugs and pulls, weakening the seams until the garments fall apart at October’s end.
The Leaves Respond
The red silk rustles down by the cattails
and muffles the murmur of the golden gabardine.
The russet taffeta swishes around like she owns the meadow.
“Haute couture doesn’t play,” they say.
They sashay, twirl, dip and bow,
each one’s zipper and buttons secure.
The leaves deepen and reach their peak.
They pose and ignore the wind’s call.
“See our fall collection,” they announce,
then gather their gowns around their knees
when the wind teases apart their seams.