An Early Winter

Pale brown leaflets roost
in fragile huddles, wrinkled
On brittle boughs, these tiny corpses
Slip from Hickory shelves
And die on earth's tired brow.

Grieving refuse litters the crust.
I look out my window and know it is time
To pile these sorrows and store them away.
I take up a rake and hand basket
And scratch away at the cloak of leaves,

Dead grass seems pleasant
compared to rotting, black leaves.
The trees frown. Like all of us,
They are not ready for winter.

I still have to pull my sweaters, overcoats,
And turtlenecks from the attic.
We all prepare in different ways, making nests,
Gathering wood. Because we know
This winter will keep us for months.