You have outdone yourself this year, New England,
                      disorienting me with your autumn stun gun,
     slapping me upside the head with your outrageous
                   foliage, reds, yellows, purples,

leaving me droning like a bee drunk on the choicest
             pollens, reeling like a frat brother, hooting in the street, bare-chested,
                     beer-blasted, on a Saturday night,
     hallucinating like Timothy Leary on the very first trip that
                              turned old Harvard Yard totally tangerine,

    even your rusted-out trees are bathed in a golden light
            that stops an awed winter dead in its tracks,
        and has me flailing, like a drowning man,
                      for metaphors, with

even the leaves agreeing that this was a season
              to die for.

November 6, 1997


All written material © Bill Schechter, 2016
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