Autumn lays the carpet with a deft sloppiness
the way a five-year old draws her mother in crayon:
there is no likeness –
except in her eyes, and she knows her work is good.
Leaves in the street, in the gutter, on the lawn,
in the way. There is no skill in this,
but aren’t we glad she colored for us?
We kiss her forehead, look in her eyes,
and love her more than ever.