Friday, October 2, 2009


Moody, they slam their buttons down
and every wind undresses them.
The ground, bright as a salad,
is covered with the racial shades
of finger-thin leaves
and the drying, antlered limbs.

Contradicting themselves
like adolescents, yet the wind moves,
a single thought among them.
As knotted thread of birds,
and a branch that screams
like a swing set, escape.

They are knee-deep in their own
broad shedding.
The bark clasps and swoons.
They cannot walk away from it.

-Melissa Kwasny