Voices of the fallen

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.