Fallen leaves cover the lawn
like one of the most beautiful
impressionist paintings
Like Monet himself had paid a visit
last night to a quiet Massachusetts suburb.
The unusual November Sunday calls
only for a sweatshirt,
And birds who, under normal circumstances,
may have been halfway
to Florida by now,
Remain and sing the smoothest songs.
Songs that you may not have heard
under normal circumstances.
Every so often, the breeze
seizes hundreds of fallen leaves
and courts them to the sky.
They dance through the air
against a backdrop of the cleanest blue,
nothing like the passive, nearly invisible
rain of cloudy days
or the harsh, stinging snow and sleet
through the most scowling hours.
This is different.
The orange dancers complete their
act and bow down to earth,
only to be lifted again for another show
within a few minutes.
And to be applauded by the few
golden leaves still hugging their branches
Gifts for a long and grueling labor.
Before long, the sky is pink
And the rarest of days comes to a close.
Everything that had been discarded
and left for darkness has slowly resurfaced.
Under normal circumstances, it would be
at this moment that you would
shirk back into the warmest corner,
But instead you smile, laugh. You watch
the sunset, which, under normal circumstances,
you might not have seen.