A Little Late

Autumn Trees

Made up of long and short bones
The tree's innards are exposed
Charred black branches are fingers
That reach up up to the sky

The winter is merciless
It rips away the leaves from those trees
Like forcibly removing
Some octogenarian's mask of make up
They look down with regret at the
Leaves scattered around their feet

Green was not everyone's colour
But autumn was a ball
Clad in rainbow gowns
October for those trees
Was, most certainly May week