-This poem reflects on the first fallen leaf at autumn’s edge, where a single mark of color makes the season’s quiet turning visible before the larger change has begun.
The maple still is mostly green,
the afternoon still carries warmth,
but on the step one crimson leaf
lies bright against the weathered gray.
No hard wind crossed the quiet yard,
no branch announced what it had lost,
the season changed without a sound,
too slight for clocks to understand.
It rests there like a little flame,
its brightness emptied of all heat,
the first clear sentence autumn writes,
before the page is filled with gold.
By dusk the air will cool again,
the shadows lengthen through the grass,
one leaf beside the darkened door
holds all the turning in its red.