Pride
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.
2 comments:
Sounds like winter is a nasty chic.
Great imagery!
Winter, the great humbler. I never thought of leaves as clothes, very nice!
Rebecca
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