Leaves don’t blow so hard
in the fall. Each breaks
differently, a shard
of summer drifting under rakes
into great heaps of wasted age,
like hair in a barber’s shop,
resting gently, no illness or rage,
waiting to be swept up.
And the trees in the winter
nod and bend like friends,
but also shake and shiver
while the cold wind rends
apart the naked branches
and sneaks down shaved necks.
The trees will take their chances
with next spring, with the wrecks
of colored leaves decomposing
around their roots,
the winter cold exposing
the bones beneath the fruits.
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beautiful.