It rises like a pillar from the ground
Its skin rough and grey
The branches bristle with thousands of leaves
Quivering in the brisk wind
They are bright gold and ochre
It is as if they know Halloween is coming and they’re preparing their costumes
Some of them have already fallen though
And their dry corpses crunch under my feat
What must it be like to be a leaf?
To live in a bright green?
To have a mid-life crisis of color?
Then to become a brittle brown that children jump in once you’ve left this world?