Why Seasons Change

Barren October maples bow
to November oaks, brown leaves
the size of pancakes finally slip
from ancient suburban trees.
Buckeyes collect themselves
at the edge of the sidewalk
looking good enough to eat.
Sycamores smell as sweet
as a new summer breeze
as sweet as the day
you first saw him.

Balmy March, but tufts of snow
still sit by the roadside like
dirty clouds, or used cotton balls
stuck in the vee of branches,
their beauty long past. The sun
has not penetrated their souls.
Their shapes as varied as the flakes
that formed them, unique as the
first strawberry on your tongue,
as new as the day
you first saw her.