The park is like an old-age home for trees—
some are a hundred years old, maybe more.
They’re bony like the old; crepuscular
along the twilight verticals of sight.
Autumn has come a little late this year;
the old don’t want to dry out quite so fast.
This maple’s leaves have fallen all at once,
and same side up: a circle of pure red.
Last month, each squirrel had something in its mouth;
they ran like crazy to escape my car.
This month, they’re nowhere to be found.
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 33 Number 3, on page 23
Copyright © 2019 The New Criterion | www.newcriterion.com