Yellowing switchgrass rolling
alongside the highway,
ushering us home from a long weekend
that wasn’t enough,
this brief interlude of living
in each other’s arms and
the boughs of cranberry bush,
mulberry, silver maple. The aspens
turning golden. The light golden. Even
the trees of heaven
curling scarlet fingers around us.
Even though we sliced through their trunks,
knowing it would be little use,
their nature invasive, even the sap
could poison our own hearts,
if we weren’t careful, but the leaves
were so red, love red,
cold-shocked
and wistful.