How is it that leaves slip so easily?
What makes a tree want to let one go?
Ants. Confident, spindly legs;
in-line high fashion models trampling
everything in their path.
Autumn wastes no time.
Shedding every tear,
she cleans up all unwanted feelings.
Slides into an icy bath.
Hides for months on end.
Afraid of loss--
afraid and sick of searching.
Stores dwindle and perish.
Sun rises, an epic
incinerating all.
Leaves nothing behind.
Winter's blanket removed.
What of spring?
What of renewal?
Restoration?
There are no ants this year.
Crane flies are in season.
Next year it will be moths,
and spring will once more be as long
as the breadth of a strand of milkweed.
Gone, like the lavish cocoon
in which rests
the pride of Vernos.
