Last year’s leaves, like crushed gold
Lie sprinkled on the crisp grass.
The celebration’s over,
Just the fading tinsel remains.
The gnarled branches
stand stark, once again,
In their winter nudity,
Grateful for the warmth from the distant sun.
The bell begins to toll, as if from another time,
The Night Watch? A stranded cow?
The temple or a warning siren?
Just a signal to wanderers to evacuate.
To go back where?
What am I supposed to do?
And, when will I know?
Questions thrown into this dappled emptiness.