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.