Rigor sets in with the crisping of frost
for the fallen leaves that trees have lost
and blanket the path with their hues of brown
a carpet of chocolate over frozen ground.
For the sunless night has taken its toll
with this icy cooking of casserole,
sculpting the discards of sleeping trees
fixing them earthbound, unmoved by breeze.
The do not rustle, their voices kinetic,
awaiting footfall to loose their acoustic:
the cries of crushing betrays my tread
from these discards
that the trees have bled.
For at my feet lies the battleground
of seasons warring, of arms laid down
by surrendering trees who now lie in wait
plotting revenge as they hibernate.