By Mary Echlin

a lone palm-sized yellow
sycamore leaf stares face-up
from the hot black sidewalk beside
a charcoal grate before dark
barriers boarding a sooty
building for the summer

though not a tree in sight along
the Quai Voltaire
or beside the Seine

a reverse silhouette blown
back from an impending season
portending the first blaze of autumn
pigment before this golden warmth
dissolves into the wet-on-wet
funereal palette of winter

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