The beeches and the maples are bare
But the cold wind rattles the leaves clinging to the oak
Like the bones of a skeleton, they are dry and brittle
And have no joy in either day or night.
They quiver now, oscillating
Like the dits and dahs of some rapid radio code
Bony fingers blown horizontal in the wind
Like children shivering, without coats or shoes.
Let go, leaves, let go.