by William Virgil Davis

The leaves have almost completely covered
the backyard, and there are leaves to fall.
The wind whistles through its thin teeth
and no one seems to mind. For weeks we
have watched from windows, seen colors
changing, but not talked about it. One night,
when we went to gather another load
of wood, we heard the dead leaves crunch
beneath our feet. Now a light snow has begun
to touch the trees and the woodpile, first
fingerprinting them, then blurring, blending
everything in. Someday, I may get around
to saying what I’ve been thinking for months.