by Jack Garcia
I look upon the tree which proudly stands
with orange lace and bright maroon cravats,
bedazzled, dressed in jewels of autumn; gold
upon his fingers stretching out to me.
I wonder where the sycamore retreats
as winter’s snow invades his closet there
and throws his precious costumes out the door:
a crimson handkerchief, a hat, a glove.
Invading spaces that were never hers,
the winter wind has stripped the tree of pride.