LEAVES: THREE TANKAS

Fall comes. He watches

Their dying flames fill the eaves

And ground their splotches

In slow-browning, flattened sheaves:

Loss over which no one grieves.

*

Their coming down makes

The ground a cereal bowl

Of brown. Then light snow’ll

Dust the leaves. Next day, he rakes

Piles of Sugar Frosted Flakes.

*

Their dank piles lie deep,

For brewing a potpourri.

Dropped from every tree,

Tannic leaves are left to steep

Till the rain turns them to tea.

— Len Krisak