I dreamed that the falling-leaf season
stopped the world in its busiest tracks,
that forest leaves formed of pigskin
made long, twirling, and spinning arcs
in the sky.
For a few hours people stopped,
watched the colored teams–
yellow, orange, red, green–
go clumping, huddling, bouncing, bumping
among quiet soft lines of wooded boundary.
The hot-dog men wait outside the park
with their mustard, ketchup, bun and meat,
of this colorful season,
go casting broad
Hummingbirds cheer with fluttering,
ruby and emerald feathers
waving pom-pom style,
and trees extend their limbs upward
in sheer exaltation,
to encourage a winning.
Some leaves are clobbered
and piled on by others,
while autumn wind sweeps clean the heap.
Poets, singers on the sidelines,
held in awe,
take notice of the noble antics
of each play.
When the season is all played out,
the forest floor littered
with the fallen dead,
months of cold and silent mulch rotting,
signal to the faithful that more
play is soon ahead.