Mid-August, 2020

Summer is fermenting.
The trees tell us so,
despite the blue curaçao sky.
Branches looking like bar counters,
occupied by seasonal leaf patrons
encoding the full spectrum
of the alcohol color wheel,
on jutted out offshoots
looking like barstools:
amber rum, red wine, dark ale, gold tequila.
Intoxicated caramel leaves
of hard cider
fall down on their faces.
Maybe the trees in drunkenness
will stay numb to the chaos
ensuing around them
come autumn.

Elizabeth Bates is an autumn enthusiast and fall leaf adorer. This poem is inspired by the tree in her front yard. Follow Elizabeth on Twitter at @ElizabethKBates.

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