Now the ground crackles underfoot.
Leaves tumble across the road like bold squirrels.
Trees strip naked seductively slow as bright colored clothes
fall to the floor.
The afternoon sun has appreciated.
And the nights have inspired fires.
The cold makes coals the word hot does not describe.
Dead trees and live trees start to look alike.
Snow becomes a word to wince at or stare dreamy eyed over.
Dogwoods turn red, maples grow yellow,
oaks of all sorts float down and blanket brown
while the grass plays dead.
The silent green leaves that once crowned
the wispy thin heights of trees have been rejected and fallen.
Let go for the wind to blow, to germinate the earth like pollen.
And now the ground crackles underfoot from it.