I've Been Working on Some Re-Writes... Take a Gander

I've been working on some re-writes... take a gander

Original:

While I pile on the clothes for winter,
the trees take theirs off, one by one.
They drip the thick layers of fall;
leaves puddling at their roots
like dirty laundry.

The trees are streaking!
Cold and naked, nipples taut.
Stepping outside to get the mail,
I snap off the closest limb.
Something to twirl and break,
and a screaming hawk perched at the top
cries into the cold, smoke drifting from its beak,
leaves falling like tiny parachutes
resting to crackle below my overcast feet.

In winter things dwindle,
and grow slower, grayer, sunken.
We shiver, bundle, and cover.
But the trees, the trees are bold.
Their arms blooimng in brave directions,
they bare their chests, lift their skirts,
their roots trailing like open veins.
They are bold women with shaved legs.
Arms raised, shirts lifted and dropped,
bare shoulders cradling tangled nests.

Re-write #1

While I pile on the clothes for winter,
the trees take theirs off one by one.
They drip the thick layers of fall,
leaves puddling at their roots
like dirty laundry.

The trees are streaking!
Cold and naked, nipples taut.
Stepping outside to get the mail,
I snap off the closest limb.
Something to twirl and break,
and a screaming hawk perched on the top
cries into the air, smoke drifting from its beak,
leaves falling like tiny parachutes
resting to crackle under my overcast feet.

The trees, the trees are bold!
Their arms blooming in brave directions,
they bare their chests, lift their skirts,
their roots trailing like veins.
They are bold women with shaved legs.
Arms overhead, shirts peeled and dropped,
knotted shoulders tending to tangled nests.

Rewrite #2

While I pile on the clothes for winter,
the trees take theirs off,
drip the layers of fall,
leaves puddling like dirty laundry.

Cold and naked, nipples taut.
A screaming hawk cries,
smoke drifting from its beak,
tiny parachutes resting
under my overcast feet.

The trees are bold;
their arms blooming in brave directions.
Bare chests, lifted skirts, and trailing roots.

They are women with shaved legs.
Hands overhead, shirts peeled and dropped,
knotted shoulders tending tangled nests.

Re-write # 3
(new title: Winter Trees)

We pile on our clothes for winter,
and the trees take theirs off,
leaves puddling at their roots
like dirty laundry. The trees are bold,
their arms blooming in brave directions.
Bare chests, lifted skirts, and trailing roots.

They are women with unshaved legs.
Shirts peeled and dropped, hands swaying overhead,
their knotted shoulders tend to cold and tangled nests.

In winter they tighten their grips in the ground
and stand a little more pointed
like my stiff nipples while taking a walk
with no clothes, the trees in rows beside me,
their bras and panties whirling on dead grass -
little flags in a festive salute.