Leaves

When everybody emotes about the leaves
how beautiful they are this year, this week,
mottled, I say, rust and fool’s gold,
and the same year after year. 
I know the last is not true, even
before I drive through the mountains
spread with tapestries and quilts
from Pennsylvania to New York.
And when around a bend,
maples and oaks, sumac and beech
resplendent in crimson and gold
wave to me from the woods,
I join the festival dance, twirling
a red handkerchief, swirling
above my ankles a yellow pleated skirt.