Rachel Morton
Response
End of an Era
By Elizabeth Cordes
Inspiration piece
The smattering of red and orange
crunch under my feet as I pass
the nearly bare maple tree.
I pause to look up.
Autumn and old age
have done it no favors.
Only a few small clusters
of jaundiced leaves
cling to the giant’s sickly branches.
As if in defiance,
they flutter like gold foil
against the furious clouds
that have charged in from the east,
chasing the sun from the sky.
The last remaining arms,
of which most are brittle and dead,
shiver wildly from the quickening winds.
The last wavering flags
drift down to join their brethren.
As night emerges,
I think
of the empty space on the side of the road
when the time comes
for the blighted tree to be cut down.