October

Who would believe that trees survive the wet, frigid wind

slashing against their bare arms and mottled skin

speckled with mites or bruises,

reminders of a careless foot or eager embrace.

Their generous color showers nod

to celebration of ample growth and festive harvests,

yet wink slower still to brief breaths, shallow

and constricted, the nod toward

slumber and

quiet.