As the green drains from the leaves,

Dave Bonta,

close-up of two oak leaves with a little green remaining among the orange and red

why doesn’t it pool underground
like a reservoir of eternal summer?
Why don’t the green, leaf-shaped katydids
turn brilliant colors before they die?
When lovers intertwine, why don’t they fuse
like roots from adjacent trees?
If a human falls in a city and there are
no trees around, does it leave a hole?

Published by Dave Bonta

I live in an Appalachian hollow in the Juniata watershed of central Pennsylvania, and spend a great deal of time walking in the woods. My books of poetry include FAILED STATE: HAIBUN, ICE MOUNTAIN: AN ELEGY, BREAKDOWN: BANJO POEMS, and ODES TO TOOLS.

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