World War Winter

These yellow and red leaves fall like foxholes

The Maple stands with courage under fire.

Lonely snowfall swoops up in cackling bliss,

pushing off the ground with her ruby slippers and striped stockings.

I smell Winter’s wrath as it silently bellows a challenge:

“Then I was, like, if you can’t handle heels, stick with flats”.

The frolicking Willows of the neighbor’s pond

Danced a disco at sunset;

the faceted dance of bitter romance

Standing stock-still in a full-blown glower

My foot taps arrogantly.

My heel crunches popping icicles-

I have somehow acquired ruby slippers.

When there are no more spitfire leaves

All they’ll see are my eyes, forehead, the bridge of my nose

Rising from out of the trench in the ground

Slaughtered in Maple leaves.