The Trees

The first thing you notice is the wind. 

The bitterly cold air hits you like the back of a hand 

Reminding you of the approach of a desolate winter

The first thing I noticed was the wind

The second thing you notice are the trees. 

I always marveled at the beauty of the trees,

the red and yellow leaves which painted their branches

like flecks of gold and ruby, scenery straight out of a Van Gogh

But still there settles a strange sensation

which grips my heart with clawed, icy fingertips

and drowns out the warm humming in my bones

Reminding me of the fate of the trees  

As fall paints it’s final streaks

of brown and burgundy upon those sacred branches,

The wicked tendrils of winter creep in

And like a frigid parasite, drain the color from the landscape

The third thing you’ll notice is the ground

The paint has dried and flaked and crumbled

as thousands of once vibrant flecks litter the ground

in one huge, unflattering, dull mosaic

I always felt that the falling of the leaves

Was an appropriate time for lamentation

As the trees lose their youthful beauty

And wither away into grey dust

Yet somehow the mourning doesn’t last

As I am reminded of the miracle that is to come

Sometime down the road the air will shift

And I will witness the spectacular rebirth of the trees

The fourth thing you notice are the branches

Small green buds of life and hope

Ready to burst upon the world with new vibrance

And warm the earth with their presence

But the future remains down the long, weary path

Which I walk on with my worn down shoes

As I settle down for my long winter’s nap

The last thing I notice are the trees