The crepe myrtle leaves have decided to fall today.
They carpet my path with their corpses of crunching wax;
They never lost color but still they fall all away.
Though brittle, these trees are not fit for the ground-man’s ax.
They doff all their glory, to die, yet to live come May;
In feigning their death they prepare for the winter’s pax.
The squirrels in their fervor among the dead garments play,
Oblivious to Eucatastrophe in their tracks:
The dead lie in wait to be broken, come spring’s new day!