the air this morning is crystal crisp with the triple
point of first frost,
bites back as you breathe,
life frozen in its own breath.
the hollow there shines of grass gone to glass in the
shards of light glisten as prisms pulverized in the
here, a sugar maple begs its triage prayer with hands
frozen in glass gloves,
the thatch-weave of those fractal fingers shines as a
with sunlight that gleams down dumb.
this now-near ghost of a maple where
those scads of schizocarpi mound
the ground, the carpet whose cornflake crunch hangs
slightly acrid in the air.
enjoy the planned obsolescence of these maple leaves,
gone red and blue in soft supernova.
evergreen needles that scatter like iron filings on
the force of the Great Magnet.
nothing green can go.
or how the wind plays those tree skeletons,
a low railroad moan,
and see those coffee tree leaves scurry, rustle,
on the whim of wind,
a colony queenless they swarm nowhere,
their call a rattle without a snake.