the tide of seasons sets trees ablaze in
magenta song, wild with crimson dance 
heavy with jonagold and ambrosia apples. 
      they ask baking in cinnamon dust to
      warm us and live in children's memories 
      of cider and tradition.

winter's shadow, the sun slips early 
into dark -- she numbers daylight upon
the trees. branches bare their arms, 
surrender their glory: 
      a bed of leaves that answered 
      the call of Earth.

the season of obeisance to the inevitable
frost bids us learn of this beautiful death,
lose the raiment that drew praise and naked
      brave the cuspate air, draw from roots
      deeper than we remember as we cling
      to the promise of a longer sun.