Abscission

I liked reading that leaves don’t fall in autumn;

they’re pushed. It captures nature’s cold practicality,

and the human tendency to fall

for appearances, illusions.

When light and warmth dwindle,

a layer of cells starts to spread where leaf stalk

meets twig, like cauterization.

The death-pitted dormant tree looks ahead

without a flicker in its heartwood.

Marcescence

Everything is mostly gray,

sleeping or decayed.

A few brittle curls cling

to the willow’s bones—dead

but life won’t let go of them,

as though their shreds

still have something to give.

They seem both abandoned

and noble in their outstaying.

Edited by Dava Sobel