A Haight-Ashbury Autumn

by Brett Rutherford

     I must sing of the void.
Cacophony I chant,
and the gray sombre Chaos
     of October.
Unfolding days in the twilight of equinox:
chill morning fog and dew,
sleeping-bag runaways
stirring for incense and donuts.
I miss my Appalachian Fall
with its red and yellow blaze:

This is Haight Street
     in western autumn
     where no leaves
     aggregate orange
rust the earth,
just brown and grey,
a pitiful deciduous
protest against sun-slant.
No leaf-piles here to play in,
for down past Stanyan
in Golden Gate Park,
citymen cart them away
to great white incinerators.

I walk the park woods at night
yearning for the crisp of maple,
the underfoot carpet. Musk smell
and eucalyptus mock me.

Above, a meteor winks:
a falling star attains its own glory
in leaf-drop immolation.
Gone, yes, 
                    but it was up there!

1967, rev. 2019