Nails left unflush to the rotting wood.

Trees of autumn,

winter’s grove,

cozy hidden cove.

An old stump, tattered wood,

snow covered and frost bitten,

remnants of tears and years gone past.

An old shanty stands               alone.

Peeling paint, the reds and blues color the wind,

dancing and thrashing.

Varnished and tarnished by the ages.

A few brown leaves remain,

clinging to the death of the tree.

The windswept canvas has faded to a soft gray.

Snow drifts pile,

and bury the forgotten forest.

The trees fear rolling clouds,

carriers of the foreboding white.

These harbingers

blanket the dead wood.

Have you ever sat still long enough to be consumed by the snow?

Have you ever been engulfed by the invisible frost?

Can you see the approach of the coming of winter,

Like the trees,

who lie,

and wait,

and fear?