I don’t trust nature If I shook hands with the wind, Winter would bite my fingertips.
It took every inch Of the stripped branches; Now scratching the horizon For the chance to grow again.
No color, no snow Only straw. Just stich all the brittle Broken leaves of fall Into a quilt To clothe a city of scarecrows.
And inside, If my house catches fire, I will rest by the burning wood. Outside, it’s a cold that could drive Fireflies to return to their hive in the sun.