The leaves fall heavily,
like teardrops—
a sorrowful rain
on a windy day,
or a calm night.
Which one, I do not know,
but it is this
wherever I go.
It allows me to paint
an old New England scene,
although my memory is faint
of what it was like
twenty years ago.
I think the same,
or so I have heard.
Although clearly,
I am not
in the least bit sure.