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The young maple outside my
window’s contorting
In the wind. Oh, it’s a dance—disfiguring and anguished
In the way of nature imitating art, which imitates
What we believe’s our nature. I don’t know. A tree
Grows resilience so it can suffer this, but suffering
Should have its ends, and this is just a change
In local weather: storm warnings until noon, partial
Clearing then, a night’s first frost. Left to its own
Devices, a tree's a beautiful thing, not this riven
Splayed creature, and of course sympathy like this
Is recursive, sentimental. You know
What I’m going to say next. It’s almost Fall.
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