and ash leaves, still green,
fall
straight
down, like parachutes
above
the battlefield
that make quick
vertical
drops of ammunition.
They lay like emeralds on a thin
dust of early snow,
that coats the deck white, drapes
the open umbrella,
blankets the garden chairs.
We think we know when things are supposed
to happen, bemoan the unseasonable frost,
presume spring is late,
proclaim the baby came too early.
The ash leaves line the patio lounge chairs
like bodies
of young soldiers fallen early,
caught
without winter boots,
lying there dressed in khaki –
not even thinking of winter –
like sandals, still strewn on the entryway
floor, and closets
still full of empty summer jackets.
