these crimson-
tipped maple leaves—
some plastered
to the dewy
grasses near their feet,
many still clinging
to senescent
mother trees
like fabulous flags
to decrepit
poles of memory.
In their own
low-key way,
everybody senses
the individuality,
the novelty
of each—
and yet,
nobody thinks
to make a distinction
between which leaf
is which. Isn't
that interesting?
