I feel the onset of winter
Biting at my exposed skin,
As I meander through the colonnade of
Horse chestnut trees.
The November chill threatens
To strip me of my layers
And I feel the coffee in my gut
Beginning to slowly freeze.
The summer is so long gone
A faded memory of lost warmth,
And the thought makes me tug up my lapels:
A vain attempt at shifting the permafrost.
Then, the strangest thing happens!
I am drawn from my own bleating
By a russet and gold leaf that
Drifts elegantly to the Tarmac floor
At my insulated feet.
It lies there, so still, so tranquil,
A single, lonely tear given natural form.
I gaze skywards, craning my neck
To the mighty behemoth’s thick branches.
The tree is barren,
Completely devoid of foliage it’s last child
Fallen silently to earth.
And in that moment I forget all my own woes,
All my prevaricating,
All my unease at the bitter weather,
And feel a great sadness wash over me,
As I wonder, do trees cry too?