Dormant, hang the winter greys,
in thick misty curtains
mixed with autumn blends
in a myriad of tombstone shades.

While your naked branches twitch
like nervous skeletons in chilly breezes
watching, layers of annual memories
crackle underfoot, after being strewn
across wet sidewalks in broken colors;
overtaking the gutters of our world.

Finally, at life's end, they lie molding
in damp heaps, unabashed,
echoing the sound of daily rakes
scratching the roots of your reasoning.

Knowing all too well, after many years
night owes you cold nothings
and shadows do their best work alone.

Then ~ as the sliver of a (silver moon)
peeks thru January twilight,
you quietly sigh
and yawn...for a season
in creaking silence.