THE TREES
.
the trees have
become skeletons now,
.
this year’s flesh
stripped off by storms.
.
we are becoming the dead
And breathe
that spice perfume
Of cold and
mulch and sleep.
.
the wind lifts the skirts
of the morning.
.
we see nothing there
except clattering bones.
.
all our neat
and sensible power
evaporates.
.
