I meant to sweep the leaves away
and pile the colors high,
but spent my time watching Canada geese
speed through the orange sky.
I sat beneath my maple tree
(no syrup running now),
and waited for the coming flights
high over the painted boughs.
Some call the cry too sad a sound
and turn their ears to stone,
but I know why they refuse to hear:
It makes them feel alone.
Such solemn birds are welcome here,
and free to have their say
and give a voice to an inner warmth.
The leaves will keep another day.