November by Linda Pastan

It is an old drama

this disappearance of the leaves,

this seeming death

of the landscape.

In a later scene,

or earlier,

the trees like gnarled magicians

produce handkerchiefs

of leaves

out of empty branches.

And we watch.

We are like children

at this spectacle

of leaves,

as if one day we too

will open the wooden doors

of our coffins

and come out smiling

and bowing

all over again.

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