10-3-2013

The trees
surrender in unison,

and their leaves are lost
in one collective gasp
to roadways and shoulders
and lift-bridges.

We stand at the edge of the park
and see it
lumbering, thick-furred,
long-clawed
toward us
along the tracks.

In our childhoods,
we recall this death.

Our first death.

We give the trees
until the end
of October
to get it done.

To paint the earth
with fire,

before the wind
and the white
come
to our doorframes
and our driveways;

before the deer-kill.

Before the diesel
jellies
in the tanks
near Lake Winnipeg,

and the cold moon
carves itself into
what we see
and what we hope for.