The stout tree
Slowly, cautiously teeters,
On guard—
The battle on.
Swoosh! Wind waves through
Clashing with icy fingers
As if tangling
Mussed, thick hair
Intentionally jumbling limbs.

The tree grips
Its belongings with a lock
Of jagged strength
But Snap! Crispy leaves violently tumble
To their fate, tired and crunchy
On the earth.

The tree could only
Hold on so long, as
Life’s defeat soaks
Through the roots
To the chlorophyll beating
In the tips of her little leaflets’ hearts—
The thud of new life
Now channeled away.

These leaves are
Little children wanting
To be let go and
Surf the cruel wind, like a dog
Riding in a car,
Proudly leaning out the window
To smell the irreplaceable freedom
Of free-flapping ears.

Yet on the ground
The leaf looks up,
Lamenting the Fall.
Was it worth it?
Long-abandoned anticipation
Now pierced, succumbed
To a surge of electrical regret,
A bleeding trickle of hurt.

For the view on the
Dirt, cold and unforgiving,
Is not nearly so grand
As the one from the tree
So tall.