A late autumn hillside above Brewster Park
On a naked hillside
Where the aspen stand like sticks
Fine branches free of leaves
Starkly fixed against the autumn sky
Harsh and cold and grey
Stillness covers exposed rock and dirt
Undressed soil like flesh of the mountain
Plain with grasses dried and brown
Flattened from the last snow
And the nest snow
Static air barren of blowing leaves
Silence from the birds
Now abandoned without protection
Am I meant to follow suit
Though I choose to remain here
Against natures heading voice
Against your better judgment
Swirling winds agitate the last of life
Yet unable to awaken or arouse
On this deserted hillside
Unvarnished and simple and obvious
Where do we find comfort in this wind
When the world beside the disturbed branches
Is so subdued in this lingering moment
Grasping at motionless movement
As we remain awaiting winter
With a natural hesitation
And dance among the quiet trees