October Poem

With this wind humming in the wires I'd like to know what was whispered in the ears of the leaves that made then screech to yellow then blush to red. What was said to the bear to traipse off and curl up into a black ball to ignore us all and snooze until spring? What was said to my hair to make it change from brown to white and who knows why the sky is blue? But I know this, the garlic I planted on Sunday will simmer in pasta sauce next summer. The basil I harvested this morning will dry from green to bluish-brown and tang our salads all winter. As for the wind, no one talks to the wind.