The summer dress,
Once verdant,
Now lies about the ankles
And across the forest floor.
Glory has been shed, laid down,
But not the majesty.
The form now revealed in the absence
Of it's outer garments,
Is a breathtaking and bare structure.
The whimsy of the green, then red, then gold now gone,
We can see in full view, the bones that endure.
Now, another ring about it's trunk,
Leaves not just dying, but sacrificing,
Pouring their remaining life back into the bark,
The capillary course having executed a full reverse
So that another four seasons may be survived.
In every season, no matter what it be,
I know I shall never write the beauty of a tree.
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