Fall of the Leaf

The final frantic mowing of lawns
Augurs the arrival of the first phalanx of frost.
Rimy fingers probing inexorably forward,
Inevitable as the tides.
A solitary brimstone flits doggedly across the tiny gardens;
Hugging the fences, looking for a final resting place.
Trees discard their raiment of burnished gold
On bowers where russet dominates.
Crisp leaves swiftly become sodden,
Like discarded cereal.