all good on your walk
although there is no one
with whom you can talk
november and the last
of the well-fed leaves
flush scarlet in the slanting light
flickering through the crown
of the red oak
death hangs in the air
like a withered leaf
about to break free
from a low limb
and float past
oblivion you imagine
is a fall alone
from the top
in a winter wind
shivering to dust
on white snow on
hard ice while
waiting for rebirth
and you think to yourself
now there’s an idea
from the one mind
so persuasive so compelling
that it must come into being
if spring ever arrives