I found a maple leaf on the sidewalk this morning:
solitary
ironic three points turned east,
colour vivid but aging. Frost
had already begun the black band around the edges.
It wanted a river
somewhere to flow effortlessly
into turbulence, match
strength for strength
in honest, if artful, battle.
But there was only that grey cement
hard, mathematically measured into precise
squares: a logical route to the next place.
So I stepped into the street
where maple keys in the gutter
spoke to the mess of Fall,
that passionate letting go.
About this Poem
Find more works by M. E. Csamer in the KFPL collection.