from top
to bottom. After autumn
the colors bleed. And the red
and gold leave. Jutting out

are gnarly pointed
twigs, like ma's hair
sans her wigs. They scratch
and tangle themselves

into a sculpture
looking like some helter-
skelter. No shelter in this
mass. No flower blooms

in dead grass. So, cut it
down. It's lost its spring. No bird
to build her nest. No Robin
to grow her wing.