It rises like a pillar from the ground

Its skin rough and grey

The branches bristle with thousands of leaves

Quivering in the brisk wind

They are bright gold and ochre

It is as if they know Halloween is coming and they’re preparing their costumes

Some of them have already fallen though

And their dry corpses crunch under my feat

What must it be like to be a leaf?

To live in a bright green?

To have a mid-life crisis of color?

Then to become a brittle brown that children jump in once you’ve left this world?