The tree outside my window
is mottled with rot, its green and yellow
leaves so lush and
vibrant with life now show
brittle, brownish black;

Nature’s marked
suicidal, burning holes in her own beauty,
wielding rays of sunlight like
cigarettes and crying spent leaves
like shivering tears dropping, dropping: {disappear}
Winter’s coming and she’s no faith
in the future.

Larger, ever larger
looms an inexplicable
death.

c. Mary Kathryn Gough, 11/9/04 11.09 am