DYING LEAVES,
dancing in the wind,
halt and rest in patchwork piles.
The roaring wind shouts loud
"This is my quintessence,
my colors,
my very best truth,
much more lovely than the bare boughed tree".

The nude and embarrassed tree,
can only brace against wind
that blows harsh on wintry eves
icing white each branch,
and rashly place
snowdrifts over its collage of betrayed leaves.

At last,
comes Spring,
and brash wind tries
to blow down the stalwart tree it did not freeze
with heated breath that stirs the frozen sap to rise
bestowing verdant cloak,
strip-teasing summer breeze.

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