Along the trail, we gathered
the largest of the rust-colored sycamore leaves
that had fallen to where our hands found them.
Later we placed them on the coffee table,
sat by candlelight, and wrote poems
about autumn. What dark sweetness
in watching the winter
prepare her spare gray garments
wreathed in smoke and fog
and the chill of the first killing frost.
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Listopad (Russian, noun): Means literarally “the falling of the leaves” but is also the name of the month for October.
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