October 3
The maples on Sycamore Street
Are flaunting their finest fall fashions;
Despite the volatile weather,
They've come through in October hours,
Pushing out scarlet and orange and blush.
The pigeons, rigor-mortised in situ,
One per lamp in the open-air station,
Pretend they don't see or mind me.
Fluffed up in granitic plume kaftans,
They may have been there for centuries,
As if
two unrelated poems (October 3; Upon Reading a Sketch...)
The maples on Sycamore Street
Are flaunting their finest fall fashions;
Despite the volatile weather,
They've come through in October hours,
Pushing out scarlet and orange and blush.
The pigeons, rigor-mortised in situ,
One per lamp in the open-air station,
Pretend they don't see or mind me.
Fluffed up in granitic plume kaftans,
They may have been there for centuries,
As if
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