Jeanne Shannon

Along the brilliant street
in the unbending glare of noon
tall elms sift down
the paper pennies of old bloom,
the paper coin of their seed.

Another month, the doctors say,
before the worm eats the last light.

He dreads the fall of dusk and sleep,
afraid that waking will be night.

He hears the crinkled sound
of elm coins falling
in eddying winds among the cars.

He knows
no coin now
can bribe the worm.

Gold summer comes, and cars
play their zinc music on the boulevards.

He longs for night

when light comes back,
and in long dreams he sees
the crayon colors of the traffic lights,
and paisley dahlias catching fire.