Poem 7

the poet's grotto stripped
of shade lays naked
the oaks still standing are dead
as dead as the strewn ones
unexpectedly warm breezes
tremble cracking twigs
gray bows threaten to snap
last year's leaves disguise
the coming vernal equinox
in disbelief an autumnal
forecast rustles like
october's first rain
but without consolation
even as buttercups 
and feral vinca calmor
and sway visceral vital
verdant aspirations
wander off