Hugs
Undecided, Aspen leaves turn from gold to silver to gold again.
Carnivals of colors, prodded by the wind, bow to end of autumn,
While brittle noise, as they fall, brings a symphony no songster could pen,
But these trees' starch and strength hug their roots to rise from soil at the bottom.
The grove is small with Aspens clinging tightly like sisters in hard times.
Their focus is a dying tree, once grand, but now black-burnt to cinder.
The Quakies, remembering the day when someone committed these crimes;
Who chopped, defaced, set afire; this one in their midst now left to tremor.
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