I didn’t notice pyracantha leaves
until I tried to fit them in a line
of poetry. I know the fruit achieves
by fermentation autumn sparrow wine,
but till I looked at leaves to make a song
I never saw how varied were those parts:
they range from rounded oval to oblong,
a few conjoined to form distended hearts.

The elm leaves rolling down the street, by breeze
propelled to golden wheels of brittle stuff,
I might have missed. The red and yellow trees
against the dry blue sky are not enough
without a job to show me in the dark
a squirrel standing like a question mark.