Season of Leaves

I am actually still working on this poem, but it belongs in this season, not in the next, so here it is along with some pictures I have taken recently.

I

Before the sun

was all the way up
the front of the house pelted
by an onslaught of mad leaves
driven on a wild wind.

II

Two black birds, crows,

locked in flight of love or war,
plummet like mad whirling blades
falling from the sky, fanning outward
the pale leaves on the asphalt below.

III

This hard wood floor,

dark and lightly
dented, scattered with thin leaves:
teardrops and crescents and stemmed hearts
and the red serrated shape we associate with Canada.