I didn’t hear the joke among the geese
but I hear them laughing and laughing,
and I swallow some of their hilarity.
The maple wastes its red on me
—I can’t take it all in—
littering the floor with glory.
A flame of vine flashes up a tree.
Berries hang I know I can’t eat but
still they look so dang good.
Apples ripen and hang like ornaments
offering themselves, the opposite of beggars,
Here, have me. Have all of me.
So much to recall and celebrate
in reds and yellows. Leaves don’t mind
spending their splendor on me.
This is too much, I think, too much,
but the crow by the road laughs and says
No, actually, it’s just about right.
September 27, 2019