The trees are tired
in this wild rush of fall,
tired of the leaves
constantly clamoring to be up
and bursting into brilliant flame,
tired of being awake.
They feel the frost nibbling at both ends of the day,
sense the coming of winter
when sleep and death
hover peacefully in the air
and all the leaves are silent.
This last effort is not for them,
the straining of the colors
and the trembling against the wind.
It's a lost cause,
as they have always known,
and all they care for now
is a still night with a pale moon
and the starlight
singing them to sleep.
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