Fall Light

The wind parts the leaves 
like a hand brushing back a curtain, 
yellow and diaphanous in 
the low tide of the sun. 
There they are, 
the Ash and cottonwood, 
the young maple, 
long bands of light 
tethered in the furrows of 
their bark. 
Their leaves are coaxed loose, 
and they fall
as slow as particles of dust. 
The light thickens,
turning in on itself,
and the leaves wait 
in soft silence
for the blossom of rust.