Maples

November days: The light is water-grey.
For one noon hour, we’re reprieved from rain,
though clouds hang heavy overhead today.
The smell of leaf-mold rises from the drains
that overflow beside the curb and stain
the concrete with a slick of mud. It’s old
news now, the river’s rise, the drowning plain.
We curse and huddle close against the cold.
What’s left to look at? Blazing red and gold
the maples stand like candelabras, bright
against the dismal sky. They weren’t so bold
when summer’s sun was generous with light—
but burn for us, who need some colors now,
a miniature sun on every bough.