Turning

And this Season also turns.

Leaves, crunchy, edges curled, covering fern fronds folded amidst the moss.

Upstanding, straight-backed trees broad-casting the fruits of their season,

Snatching the carbon and the water molecules and the passing sunlight,

Night and day, day and night, ’till their little solar panels,

In absolutely perfect planned obsolescence,

Cut loose, cast off, cascade down,

Down, delivering themselves

And their carbon cargo

To their resting place

Beneath a blanket

Of white.