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.
