Deborah Guzzi

Chin held in blue-veined hands, I scan senescing.
A subtle rain insinuates itself into scenery
licking butterscotch from the incised

margins of maple, brightening the weakening splendor,
crowning lemonade beeches. The monochrome
gray of the slate walkway sharpens to a rich
number two lead with a sheen of silver.

August’s burnt, reclaimed, rye field revives with
sprigs of green. The drizzle makes no sound;
this sweet and liquid glaze. See the languid
tonguing of leaves soothe trees, a green,
as green as, sour limes suckled. All too
soon the drool of fall will freeze—

become—the casing ice
of winter on the
denuded boughs of Fall.