Fall

by Michael Friedman

Light, the reflection of brass,
winks in the chill
and tumbled scattering
of leaves.
Naked branches
no longer pulled
in long gusts
through unfurled sails
of photosynthesis.
Leaf hands with green backs
and matt silver underbellies
curl yellow
and cup in rigor mortis,
snap at the wrists,
point back to the suppleness of youth
until they skitter
against dry asphalt,
lifeless in the whip
and whim of autumn winds,
while once tender bark
hardens under a scale
of lichen and knots. Dried crystalized sap
fixes in twists and drizzle,
to become dull as scab
in the leaden rough of winter.