A display of warmth and blush would once make its way down the tree.
Gracefully it left, like a final bow at the end of a play; so frail, yet, quite tender to the eyes of the admiring audience.
Mornings pass dressed in suites and ties, carrying a briefcase of winter clouds.
Mucky leaves now slop their way around, hitching a ride on the nearest boot or swift ambulance.
Still, some stay close to home; never gliding too far past its trunk.
They watch lovely arms that once held them tight.
Rest and sway... a mother rocking her empty cradle