Liquored up with color,
I hear trees grow loud
in retreating daylight and crisp
air. Staring into yellow, orange, and red
sugar maples, I imagine a Miles Davis
jam session. Lemony elms and birches
are a Mozart string quartet,
and scarlet sumacs burn with Billy
Holiday’s throaty melancholy.
Tawny beech leaves remind me
of Pete Seeger strumming banjo,
and coppery oaks play
drum rolls against the hills.
Choirs of color draw
few listeners as foliage
season ripens to a crass theme
park for touring leaf peepers
seeking peak experiences.
I know it’s never as good as promised,
as remembered from childhood,
or as vivid as a photo-shopped
screen shot. At times I find
myself waiting for music that never
arrives, even as saturated tints
vibrate with waves of sound
urging me to see anew.
