Orbit

Leaves whisper frantic pleas

To October’s persistent wind.
Shades of green surrender
To burnished rust, bloody red,
Brilliant yellow or simple brown.
Gardeners rake them into piles
Just as misers’ arms heap up
Countless scattered coins
In defense against a dearth
They know will come.
The poor earth spends its wealth
Until bankrupt forests
Have nothing left to pay.
Winter wants the ransom
Summer owes for spring to come.
Animals owe their fealty to their sleep
As our wobbling planet inclines
Away from a more distant sun
In an orbit that can’t change
No matter what we
Or the fallen leaves may say.