They are patterned upon the grass,
frozen into a tableau
of muted greens, yellows and hints of red.
The greens are more of a militant camouflage—
except they are what the camo hopes to imitate—
the reds are more that of a brownish
dried blood, and the yellows
are phlegmy.
This is the autumn splendor
sprawled upon the ground,
fallen from the trees,
and swirled onto the grass
like the vomit of a drunken party
now frozen onto the green of the grass.
I can’t help but think it must have been
one hell of a party to have so debauched
my beautiful green lawn
into this crusted mess of vomit
that I have to quickly clean
before the potent purity of the ultimate judge,
Old Man Winter, arrives.
Shall I scoop it together into a
moldering mess,
or burn it to let its incense
welcome in the crispness of
Winter’s snow?
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