by Alice Feeley
and they still hang on with no life left,
these wide maple leaves gone brown,
turned in on themselves
like crumpled paper.
Unmoved by winter
they still shudder on thin stems
above soft ground
where other leaves
are turning into earth again.
A few yards away a gold sign
blows against a telephone pole.
“On Sunday,” it says
“we will be selling our home
to the highest bidder.”
And across the bare landscape
a magnolia teases thirty degree night air
with dense buds ready and rosy pink.