The Season

Nature runs her hand
Through her hair.
Strands of blonde, auburn, and the
Spectrum between
Cling to the comb,
Fluttering beyond the reach of
Branched fingers.
Piles of loose flakes
Settle on her shoulders
Because the wind always abandons
Its passengers to gravity:
Dead weight to carry,
A landscape's dandruff.

Body flushed of color, naked -
Winter drags this cadaver sheet
Slowly to her bald scalp.
There would have been an
Objection
Were there life beneath the creeping
White,
Yet everything went
Peacefully.

But we've seen you come
From the grave before,
Lazarus,
We've seen you peel
This cloth from your
Green flesh.
And whether or not we
Believe
Our eyes is entirely up to
The season.