Fall Leaves

The leaves whisper to the ground
but it's the
loud whisper
of kids up too late,
brothers and sisters
careless with time
conspiring in the deep woods
of their bedrooms
waiting for slumber
in no pursuit of sleep.

The leaves breeze into town
for the October Convention.
What will they wear?
Why, nothing
but the ghosts
of greens,
those blushing oranges
of dying,
that yellow promise
of spring.

The leaves are addressing you,
stamped by heels and toes,
posted by frolic,
delivered by
predictable mystery
to our lush
already
yesterdays.