Author's Note: Regardless of the season, birds and trees seem to find their way into my poems.
No longer gowned in emerald green, these oaken queens cannot pretend serenity at summer’s end. They clutch their brown and ragged leaves and huddle, sullenly aware of their gnarled and bony branches baring all to fall’s advances. Maples, wearing red and orange splendor dared to taunt the sovereign oaks. Now, further insult is supplied by ornamental junipers whose ever green and springy lace is tied up safe or wiggles gaily in the biting autumn wind. Chagrined, the haggard queens resort to empty, grotesque gestures while they rock themselves and wail into the night, quaking white-faced aspens in the vale and waking regal willows from their sleep, who, moved so by their oaken cousins’ plight, moan mightily and tear their hair and weep.
Bedecked in lace and diamonds, yesterday’s stark-naked trees shamelessly display today the evidence of one long cold night’s carnality. Sporting crystal kisses that ignored no crook or branch, nor twig nor dried up leaf, they do not mourn their absent lovers – nighttime mists that paid for pleasure and slipped away dawn. Instead, they linger in repose, wrapped inside the traces of a million moist caresses until the daytime jealousies of sun and wind will strip from them the splendor of their wintry affairs.
©2023 Irene Voth
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to say what it is about the poem you like. Writing to the author is what builds the community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -JL