The poet wrote of birch leaves
lying imbricate on the ground –
the definition likening the word
imbricate to scales of a fish
neatly overlapping. As I read
the poem, I looked up at yellow
birch leaves fluttering in the
cold east wind and landing every
which way but imbricate on the
net covering the pond. I could
barely see the gold-fish looking
up in my direction through the
wet, soggy, jumbled leaves.
Sometimes all the messy stuff
in between keeps us from seeing
each other.
bobdahl
Musings by Bob/ Blogging so I don't drive e-mail friends crazy
bobdahl 
Indeed … good images, too, of fall … an extraordinary time of the year … yesterday, or so, some writer noted some poet or something like that who described fall as “second spring” with all the leaves flowering in bright fall colors … well, that’s pretty optimistic, I guess, but heck, why not?