These trees that throughout summer gave us shade,

protecting us from global warming’s sun,

begin to lose their leaves, and every glade

is carpeted in ochre, red and dun.

 

Then scrunching down once-sheltered forest trails

amidst the foetid fragrance of decay,

a chill autumnal flurry soon assails

our senses with its sibyllic display.

 

And so, with season’s ending now foretold,

we gird ourselves against the coming dark,

when we will crave some shelter from the cold,

away from forest limbs so tall and stark,

 

sequestered there, remaining unafraid,

to safely see out winter’s long blockade.