Woad Oaks

Grave black, dirt grey, earth brown,
Dead leaves on the cracked stones,
Rust on roots and deer nests—

The oak leaves are the last
To bronze, dull, and let go.
On the ground they turn grey,

A kind of soft blue woad,
Blurred slate to paint the shades
The bared twigs and trunks throw.

Some of them rot, matte black,
As soon as there’s hard frosts.
I set my camp chair there,

To spend this day as day,
Not as a list of chores,
A lot of things to do.

You can’t count the oak leaves.
You can rough up a guess.
You do that. I can rest.