It's November again.
Old men mount bicycles,
wobble down cobblestone,
shift weight
as they pass the churchyard.
Early evening. Cold rain.
The trees are stripped of their pages.
In the morning:
the scurrying of confetti.
The mailman smiles--
smells old smells.
The children sit in a circle,
mill dead leaves, build a mound
of tree dust between them.
It's November again.
Small boys mount bicycles,
wobble down cobblestone,
shift weight
as they pass the schoolyard.
K.D. Mann