That golden maple has shed its treasure-
Stands grey and stark
Among silver skeletons that rattle.
I walk today into the glade.
There is a rime of frost here,
crisping the lines of a turkey feather.
It marks remnants of other lives:
maple leaf, fox pad, deer track.
The winds change and flakes swirl -
The dogs howl a chill exhalation,
and I surrender.