Trees harbour squirrels and other small strangers.
Fog and gloom to rise at dawn and settle
at dusk. The lurking cold presents dangers
to every shriveled fungus and petal.
Dead leaves rustling down, haunt the forest floors.
Emptied branches of season’s progression,
host to catch the end of autumnal spores;
enter into a winter’s suppression.
Like spirits unearthed by the scent of mold,
deteriorate from crisps, claimed by moss.
Dusting of crimson, crumbling of gold,
veins and crevices bare rotted emboss.
Guarding their threatened strength close to their core,
rids them of weakness to be born once more.
