This time every year (it seems)
Autumn’s scales droop slowly
from the icy weight of winter’s gravity
steadily expanding until the plates
of Fall collapse into the cold.
Through my window I reflect on
the stigma (long endured) thrust
upon naked branches leaving trees
feeling embarrassed by the intimate
nature of our relationship.
Perhaps it’s age that causes the cold
to weigh heavy on my mind,
or merely avarice (once ignored)
leaves me wanting more, eager
for Spring to cover me again.
© 2021 | Phillip Knight Scott