Trees in Three Winters

Trees in Three Winters

While I pile on the clothes for winter,
the trees take theirs off, one by one,
they drip the thick layers of spring;
foliage 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 extended and blooming in brave directions,
as 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.

Rewrite #1

e-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.