There are so many poems

There are so many poems:

            like red and yellow leaves on the maple trees on New Hampshire Street,

            like reflections of the sun on each ripple of water 
                        beyond the Bowersock Dam –

                        and before,

            like the clear blue sky today,

which is not like the clear blue sky written against
            the varied reds of bricks and paint 
            of the Eldridge Hotel yesterday,

and all the other clear blue skies,

and we’re only speaking of October -

this year -

                         trust me on this.

There are so many poems