Nature’s Slumber Party

As the late summer dozes
   and Autumn’s color rises
   invitations flutter
      to nymphs everywhere.

The waving fronded sylphs
   in western warmer weather
   rebuff her rude request,
      rippling in the salty air.

But the silent stoic sprites,
   standing in the cooler climates,
   accept the sultry summons
      to her seasonal soiree.

The party’s slow in starting
   but once it gets a-rolling
   disrobing is expected
      for Autumn’s annual play.

The first ones join the fracas
   sometime in late September,
   and others in October,
      when stiff winds start their stirring

And branches begin waving—
   trees high-fiving one another—
   with a blush and a shudder
      their clothes begin to fall.

The host, Autumn, cares not
   who’s first to join the party —
   whose leaves first enflame
      with the fall’s brightened fire.

The locust drops her threads first—
   her tiny yellow fibers—
   before the other trees
      think to join the fun.

Then the birch, its sleeves unfurled,
   bare bloodless pale branches
   as her golden-brown gown,
      falls slowly to the ground;

And the soft-hearted tulips
   with their fading lemon flowers
   and large loping leaves
      toss their robes all around.

The strong and stoic maple
   stands warily watching,
   and ever-slowly blushing,
      while her shawl falls ever bustling.

Then sagacious slim tall gingkoes
   trade emerald kimonos
   for fresh golden garments
      which rain quickly to her feet.

At some time much much later
   the oaks and the dawn redwoods
   begrudgingly release
      their final threads to the air.

But the green pines are huddled
   and, quite frankly, befuddled
   and refuse to participate
      in this stark naked affair.

Then at the party’s dark dusk—
   late November or December—
   when the tree’s naked shoulders
      grow colder and colder,

And the winds blow ever faster
   than they ever did the past year
   and the threads of Joseph’s garments
      pile up to ever molder

In the rain and the sleet
   of the winter’s decay.
   But under fresh snowy blanket
      the naked trees stand like granite

With their frozen snoring trunks
   and naked branches in cold bunks,
   where they dream of spring’s bright dawn
      when they’ll put new garments on.