My Nature
My nature ignites with change,
her trees bleeding Fall, slowly fading
into themselves and burrowing down into their roots,
escaping the foreshadowed freeze.
Her arms are stiff with another year passing,
another raping of her leaves and her precious youth
spent shading lovers from rain and sun alike.
The clouds are low,
pounding the moisture into her skin,
plumpling her and making her glow
like warm sex.
The maple glue overflows, wiggling through the bark's pores
and carmelizing with the cold;
mother's milk over ice.
My nature leaves me
when she can no longer feel the sun,
her arms too heavy to sway;
her feet frozen below.
I'm afraid to touch her,
my cold fingers like icy sausages
covered by thin, worn gloves.
I tiptoe around her moat in search for shelter
from Father Snow's ejaculation,
the coating that slows our traffic
and layers our front yards with a heavy dandruff.
The next four months will rob me
of concentration and my taste for ice cream.
My nature brings me closer to her silence
with the darkness of these harsh days,
the winds howling through my bare ears
and peeling my skin like hunger to a banana.
With flesh exposed, I dry out
and become whittled by her temporary death;
her empty hibernation.
October 19, 2009
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