"Leaves"

As the first frost neared, the water overflowed   

with reflected color of summer’s demise   

High in the wind, a remnant of warm days fell—   

alone—floating, turning, then softly at home   

Autumn silently ran among the towers,   

forcing the windowpanes to lose their fastened grasps   

In shimmering glory they cascaded down,   

shattering to rest at the tree roots below   

There, at last, by the river and on the curb,   

the vestiges of yesterday piled together   

They shift in the wind and await the first snow,   

wait to be buried in a blanket of cold.   

Copyright 1975 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman