All over the sidewalks,
in the gutters,
doing their deciduous dance
into winter in these
parts of our citified
woods, finally crimsoned
by mid-December,
like so many rose petals
thrown at our feet
we can’t help scuff
through them—or stop,
bend and peer at
their starry selves,
from browning banana
yellow to pumpkin-esque
to deepest blood red,
admiring the versatility
of ones that so
unselfconsciously go
from naked to leafy full
to bare again,
in the meantime,
leaving so many
terrestrial stars
for us to—yes!—
wish upon.