Mama hated Fall

Leaving

Mama hated Fall—

said it made her melancholy,

all the trees losing their leaves,

dying.

She was staring half-blind

out the window of the cubicle

she shared with an empty bed

on the other side of the curtain

where her last roommate

muttered and moaned,

refused to eat,

and stopped breathing—

at the very moment the first blood

red leaf on the sugar maple

fell in a fluttering spiral

onto the cropped grass.

From mama’s worn recliner

she couldn’t see the scarlet

oak still holding on

to every one of its stiff spiky leaves

until the first day of spring

when the old tree at last

dropped its tough unyielding

regrets.

She couldn’t see because

she chose to close her eyes

on the Ides of March and missed

the final end of Fall.

Her still-dark curly hair arrayed like

a crown of oak leaves,

and the shape of her slack mouth,

an opening bud.