I’m Still Bright Green
Jim Tilley

Not falling of their own accord, clusters
of oak leaves, bitten off at the stem
by a squirrel rustling away in the tree,
too hard to free acorns way up there when

the goal is to collect as many as you can
to store away for winter, much better
to fulfill the task down here on the ground
near the pile you’ve already stashed.

Those shiny leaves still bright green,
deprived of the opportunity to age out
gracefully, turn yellow or red before brown
and crispy, crunchy underfoot by a walker

of paths like me. I, too, aspire to pass
away with grace, but have to fight off
those squirrels who keep coming after me
to filch all that should be rightfully mine.