After artwork by Keith Kozloff

Last leaves yellow like fading bruises, dangle
in heavy air and hot wind, then flood the pond.
Roots find much too much water in marshy ground.
Poets once said trees speak to each other. Alone,
this tree gasps. Maple, apple, white oak, all gone.

The old woman swallows pills, washes them down
with Coke. Then laughs at ghosts’ tales of the future,
remembers running outside, eating ripe fruit,
drinking tap water, counting the trees that hid
the pond from her, August sun pushing past clouds.

Algae blooms on water-logged lawn, turns it green.