I watch flurries of snow
clutch muted lemon, rogue,
clementine and copper leaves.
Beneath speckles of tawny brown,
they carry the scent of long-burnt sugar.
The snow is mold on the leaves,
painting the world in streams
of stilted, stubborn gray.
The leaves are shaken by the absence of Autumn;
they sneer at Winter, who usurps his throne too quickly.
They cling to the trees, contemptuous of their new master
and his falling, slaving snowflakes.
Standing on the cement,
I wonder how I will look
when all the color has been bleached
from my hair and my skin,
when I will be reduced
to the whiteness of my eyes.
I will rot away to snow;
the riot of life will be crystallized,
always out of season, until it is
sculpted into sleet and slumber.