Only the oaks up at the cabin cling to leaves, now brittle and rusty brown. And here in the Cities hardwoods rid themselves of foliage daily. Too soon the splendor of autumn lies scattered about on frosted ground.
Shakespeare in the Park
Macbeth stands in the commons,
a Crimson King maple vanquished,
cape in shreds, leaves mere threads
of failing stems, dropping at his feet.
For three weeks his majesty transfixed
me like a week-kneed pawn in front
of his fiery brawn, and then
his swift downfall. Even the jaded
shake their heads at his overnight
ousting by the Thane of Winter
now ascending the throne.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
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