The oak is old, gray, and gaunt
No leaves grace his spreading limbs
The sky glows through his framed spaces
but its light lacks force enough to regenerate him
Anchored in age alone, the patriarch presides
At his side, a maple garbs herself in dress of gold
She is younger, but not young
The dull splendor of her leaves inspires courtesy
but their beauty presages her withering
Poised on the cusp of decline, the matriarch glances back
Nature goes down to death for rebirth
The cold, dark entombs her in frozen earth for only a season
Spring’s strengthening sun will raise her from the deeps
but change the maple and the oak for a human daughter and her father
Facing only loss, they grieve
In latening autumn, they stand, they two
lost to hope
lost to warmth
lost
In memory of my mother:
No Beauty
Exiled
Cold Rage
Bright Radiance
Beauty in the Close
Grievous Loss