Promise

The November air is chill. Shredded, racing clouds Look down upon Half-naked trees below. Brown, yellow, red, The leaves are torn From Mother Tree’s grasp And fall panicked, Dizzy, to huddle on The cold, gray walk. Finally, raked into piles, Their fate is sealed, The bonfire lit. Red-gold sparkles Fly swirling upward In a smoky cloud, To flicker out In the night sky, Leaving behind them Only ashes of memories But Mother Tree, Bending in the wind, silent, Keeps her secret. Waiting out the long Gestation time of winter, Pregnant already with The green and tender Babes of spring. Awaiting patiently The promise of rebirth.