In autumn, I descended from Hillside Avenue
down Evergreen lined then from sidewalk 
to the curb with maples. I, not an especially 
triumphant boy, walked in triumph through 
a processional of torches – fiery yellows, 
shiny oranges, fierce reds – all lit up for me. 

When the rains came, heavy leaves fell, 
and my path was lined with gold like the streets 
of heaven, but soggy. Home owners who didn’t 
sweep, possessed a sidewalk abstract etched 
by leaf. 
                               Brown November. Homeward in
the early dark, breathing the acid air
of burning leaves, nodding to the men who leaned 
on iron-tined rakes, tending the smoky pyres.

From A Walk to the Center of Things (Poetry Center of San Jose).
Used here with the author’s permission.