Out of Season

she is-
red like autumn leaves
lashes skirting fair skies and
a white birch shell
in her cool breeze you will shiver
your skin will turn bumpy.

you knew her as a little boy.
she, your favorite term
whose embrace once wrapped you up, unprejudiced.
her, a friend and Season,
her passing perfume then
didn’t mind that you were alien.

you know her, still a little boy
as you remember how she was

and see how pretty she is now
how good she smells like fallen leaves.
how her cherry boughs smile
and how her crisp air clings about
your thin and lonely body with ease.

how happy for a while she’ll make you.

as for me me, I can have no argument-
I have no leaves to show for.
my head is made of bark
I am so damp and bitter-smelling
like Death and dark and winter’s biting
I am not beautiful with color
and though I too can make you shiver,
my cold will always grab your bones.

I am found deep within this Forrest.
it’s rather inconvenient,
this chilly wood where I am planted
where I am
surrounded by dead grasses.
surrounded by impressions in it
surrounded by this ground the summer made you think of softly.

here I am
where you said you loved the shade
where you reveled in the cold and
where autumn made you wander

to a prettier Wood
to a simpler land
because frivolous colors are not
too hard to say goodbye to.

in the end end,
all I have to offer up
with my blackened icy branches
is that my Roots are deeply lodged
into this Forest ground,
and even when you burn me down-
set me afire with lusty flames-
ingrained they will remain.