Labors

A poem about changing seasons.

Labors

It’s cold out there,
Among the old, thin trees reaching

For that lavender abyss
Bordered with red and orange,
In that field of mud and sand
That used to be a meadow,
Or a garden.

They’re spaced by
Dry, frozen dirt. They don’t
Count the years.

Their bark is no longer moist
With the fruits of seasons passed.

And now the moon
Hangs in better judgment,
And glistens among the stones
That used to be flowers.
And for hours, after hours
Speaks with awesome discourse
Of that poise,

Which was swept away into eternity
By the cool breath of nature.

It shook them down to their roots
Between the rocks and seeds in the earth,
And left them leaning lamely
Against the dead of winter.