Branches eased of their summer load.
Was it the wind or trees I heard sigh?
Or was it just an emptiness
One hears when birds no longer sing?
The ladder sways on wind swept boughs,
Left to linger without the weight,
Of some climbers step, to reach
What once grew when the sun was warm.
How does one regard a feeling
When something is left behind?
Like the ladder that’s left to lean,
Like someone so far from their home.
Cold is the essence of winter:
The hollow chill, the colder light.
The pale now blooms in crystal frost
Filled with apples far from season.