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, embarrassed tree, can only brace
against wind that blows harsh on wintry eves
icing white each branch, and rashly place
drifts over its masterpiece of abandoned leaves.
At last, comes Spring, and harsh wind tries
to blow down the stalwart tree it tried to freeze
with heated breath that stirs the frozen sap to rise
bestowing verdant cloak, strip-teasing summer breeze.
Gerald Bosacker