October leaves on the footpath and pond
were galaxies, star-shaped maple;
colours of evening, hearth colours;
of a year whose duties have been seen to;
of hands when the deal is done.
Russet, reds, yellows, browns:
colours of contentment, of retiring.
In November they were rotting, blackening
sodden heaps, turning back to humus,
my October stars. In December they were gone,
but left hand-shaped traces all over the path,
waving back, waving back, those happy souls.
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