A Bare Season

The ice drips solemnly as the oak cries its leaves, and the maple becomes bare, A transition to one brought on by weathering expected, Leaving a naked stem, roots in place, looking the same, As the maple gazes over, only to see itself as an oak, Realization sprouts as a chance that one is the other, both bare and exposed, Nothing to hide. The same. But different. Plain and simple, although so rich and complex. One would jest at the other, if only it wasn't a reflection. The winds reside, and the sky blooms, The mighty structures regain their appendages, and cast a new old appearance. The same. But different. Hidden by a cloak of beauty, and entrapped with knowledge of the other.