A windy autumn night becomes the trigger for a rush of memory in this short, quiet poem. The speaker watches leaves being scattered, picking out two colors: the brown of oak and the gold of poplar. Above them, clouds slide past a half moon that glows "like neon," a surprising, almost artificial comparison that makes the sky feel sharp and slightly strange.
Then the poem turns inward. The memories "shiver," and the chill runs up the spine. It's unclear whether the cold comes from the wind or from what the speaker remembers, and that blur seems to be the point. The outer scene and the inner feeling merge into one.
The mood is wistful and a little eerie. Nothing is explained about what the memories are, so the poem leaves us with only the sensation: the way a certain kind of evening can bring the past back so physically that your body reacts before your mind has settled on anything.