Winter Tree

The voracious season has come
with its wrinkled bark and nakedness,
when the vegetative slumber of winter
overcomes you.
And in the doze before true sleep
you imagine the difference of squirrels.
You dream your leaves are done for
and dying into the dirt at your feet.
A storm blows down your extra fingers.
This is the frightening monument
before the deep dreaming overtakes you,
when you can still scent the faint song
of autumn. You press your roots to earth.
You pretend you are not paralyzed
with the inevitable,
But growing fascination with languor
overcomes your plaited sorrow.
The sleep huddled in your highest branch
stretches its leaves and falls on you like a blanket,
warms your fears just in time for snow.