A SHOW OF COLORS
At first we thought the lengthy drought
Would quench our usual fires of fall
And we would enter winter without
Our annual foliage spectacle,
For many of our trees went brown
As summer neared its torpid end
And leaves dropped serely on the ground.
What else could this sad sight portend?
Some say that trees can communicate
By underground telegraphic systems.
Perhaps they sent word to their forest mates
That the time had come to show resistance.
So our maples were able to concentrate,
Condense their chromosomes and atoms
And flare up in a blinding last display
Of death-defying radiant patterns.
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