I’m looking at the mid-September sun
through leaves of sycamore, shot with chartreuse.
Proceeding as the day is nearly done,
when UV filters haven’t any use,
I note the sky is bluer from the wind
that twisted lighter leaves and shook them down.
It’s plain the planes have loosed their hold. Unpinned
their paper fingers scrabble on the ground.
Like newsprint left to yellow in the sun
and corrugate beneath the elements,
the fallen leaves of sycamore become
a brittleness to trample and a fence
of drifted amber. Overhead’s a filigree
of foliage still clinging to the tree.