Wearied as young
debutantes
leaving the grand ball,
all the trees—from
the smallest red dogwood,
to the shapeliest
catalpa—heave sighs
and shed their extravagantly
crumpled vintage coats,
draping the fall sidewalks
in such preposterous
and superabundant fortunes
of pure gold,
of sturdiest
rust and tart persimmon—
that the lowliest woman
and most distracted man
no longer know where
to look, or how
to feel poor—while just
enjoying the simple.
