One tiny red leaf
 
drops from the blueberry bush
 
into a clay pot.

 
 
 

After Thanksgiving,
 
a freshly raked Zen garden
 
hosts a dead oak leaf.

 
 

With her loaded brush,
 
Autumn splashes brilliant tints
 
on each dying leaf.

 
 
 

Beside an old Ford,
 
a red-leaf pile grows smaller
 
with each gust of wind.

 
 
 

In my autumn dream
 
I am the last maple leaf
 
clinging to its tree.

 
 
 

On a whitewashed wall
 
a leaf from the maple tree
 
leaks out its redness.

 
 
 

The length of autumn—
 
I measure its unfolding
 
leaf by crimson leaf.

 
 
 

A single red leaf
 
foretells cooler days ahead—
 
pilgrimage weather.

 
 
 

in the embrowning
 
of a single ginkgo leaf
 
my whole life’s story

 
 
 

How many autumns
 
until I fall like a leaf
 
from the mother tree?