A tree is an animal
when winter comes
(without skin).
In the fall, wind
sweeps and blows
it's veridian fur,
whorls of breeze in the motley green.
As the warmth
leaves land, tree moults.
Foliage, like clumps
of matted hair, fall
and cover the already sleeping ground.
Winter comes, and but a few hairs left
to cling to the skeleton beast.
Cold and yielding,
the season bites at mossy heels.
Old north claws scratch at bark
and tear down the last remnants
of tattered hair.
Tree is left, brown bone in apathetic earth
(not a corpse, but let the sleeper lie).
Report a Policy Violation
the news article as well as check out the individual pieces. We understand that each day you may not be able to check out each and every one of the pieces, everyone has their own things going on. We just ask that you make an attempt to help support the growing Literature community.
Follow us on Twitter
Become a fan on Facebook
Comments