Now that time has fallen back
an hour, I drive down L Street
shaking my head at the trees
still swathed in green, the leaves
stuck tight to the precise spots
where they were born.

In other parts of this hemisphere,
their brethren have already taken to
wearing gold and crimson sweaters
before becoming the fallen. But here,
many of us stubbornly cling to what
feels like our place, holding on to
the illusion of permanence.

This month we have no choice.
The signal will come to let go, and
if we do not, we will be released.
Which is the way of things.
All our cries cannot stop it.

But never mind—look at this day,
we say to each other—cloudless
blue-sky lovely, doing an excellent
imitation of spring.

On a day like today, it doesn’t seem
as if winter could ever tiptoe in,
delivering sorely needed rain,
lowering the temperature a degree
or two each day before it really
gets down to business.

And it will, as we who have
weathered many winters well know.

There we go, getting lost in
what’s coming instead of relishing
what’s here. As if we can change
the season, forgetting that after
a time—less than we think—

it, too, will pass,
and we will leaf again.