The trees have been bludgeoned,
Saturating earth’s brown cloths
With pools of gold and crimson leaves —
The bleeding of last season’s memories.
Upon this rusted, rotting bed
Nature runs her cruel, frigid fingers
And spreads her frosted, silver jewels,
A glittering reminder that nothing lingers.
But soon, this mercurial mistress
Will wake and howl with blackened rage,
Kick these gilded dreams about her feet
And sweep this burning reverie away.
She’ll force decrepit hands to thrash
And grasp at shrunken throats
Of old men wrapped in rags —
Anything to keep warm in the season of the dead.