There are the geese, back again.
Seventy-five degrees in mid-November
and it seems the leaves are the only things
that recognize the calendar's truth
and abandon their altitude.
I wonder, when they fall,
if they've given in to death
or if they wrinkle up their dry faces,
crinkle-close their eyes
and wish for an easy Floridian retirement.
Their lives are so short
their lips so dry and fragile
and yet, the ones I pity are those
yet dangling, lifeless, in naked trees.