The Ash tree in the front yard lost all its leaves,
To the storm last night.
The skies are now pouring through it,
Onto the dormant ground.
Ready for the winter hardship,
It stands naked, gray branches barren,
No coat or cover, only thin fingers,
Pointing defiantly at the cold wind.
Birds bathe in the shallow end of the pond,
Readying their feathers for the coming winter,
Squirrels run last-minute errands,
To store food.
The season is changing,
Sending messages of bright colors,
Chilly nights,
And a fading sun.
The election season blows angst into my head,
A year framed by confinement and fear,
Is reaching its conclusion.
In leaves-covered yards.
Faces in windows,
Peeking outside,
Seeking, and hoping,
For a greener future.