I walk among these yellow birches.
Their bark is cold
as untaken apples on the ground in October.
Groups of pines brood like emperors in cliques
to trade their golden capes of light
for a rarer persian indigo upon their shoulder bows.
The leaves of the blushing red oaks curl inward, silhouetted and dark,
trembling in wind whispering of harsh Novembers.
Goldenrod assumes the vacant throne of fields
architected in the spaces between these trees,
as if all were Napoleon, snatching away his crown,
their coarser demeanor a better fit for the wilder air
now visible on my breath
as I walk among these yellow birches.