Here and there, in protected places,
handfuls of golden leaves still wave
from the tops of the maples. But
for the most part, the branches
are bare, ready for their winter naps.
Except, of course, for the oaks,
the magnificent ones, who only now
put on their amber autumn color.
Wearing their glowing crowns
they reign now, trumpeting the trees’
last song, proclaiming the judgment:
Well and beautifully done.