Spice

It’s the time of year I want to be there, not here:
back east, where the hills flush red as guilt,
as if a secret has been exposed.
But there is no secret; just October
in Vermont. Saffron, turmeric,
chili pepper on the leaves.

It’s taken years for me to notice;
only now I can admit
that here, too, the trees break out
in spicy salsa flames—
though it’s our winter that sizzles:
November and December
when Liquidambars blaze as brightly
as the maples I have yearned for.
Too long I’ve missed the scarlet
of crepe myrtles in L.A. . . .

not just leaves turning red,
not paprika, sweet or hot,
but the glow they spark in me—
and whatever in that fervor feels
like revelry, rebellion.
Something fierce unleashed
makes me blush like those hills.