Maple Fools, Miser Oaks

Maple trees cannot wait. They turn first
before frost, prodigal, unrehearsed,
holding no leaves back when the night cold
comes promising winter. They are gold
when oak lamps have only begun to burn.

Oaks hoard, dole out their russet, turn
only at winter’s touch. In the hard frost
when maples darken, shiver, their light lost
on every wind, autumn is carpeted
with fool’s gold, but the miser oaks burn red.