As late as yesterday, the leaves hung
on the trees-brown, motionless, dead.
Then, they fell all at once,
bringing winter with them. And, afterwards,
everything seems restful and quiet.
All afternoon, I read in bed,
the covers white and fluffy
like a field of snow.
They have the texture of a woolen scarf
worn by a sad hero.
How I hated to get up,
but I needed to make dinner:
a sausage sandwich on a French baguette.
A great hurt says farewell as I open
the refrigerator.
