The Silver Tree

THE SILVER TREE 

Autumn, her leaves resemble obsolete Christmas lights; on a cold December. Blinking Twilight Zone, either home alone or everyone’s gone.

At the dawn of New Year's Eve,  

Antiquities deep-rooted: stout extending neon blank stare, that of a 

mountain unmoved.     

After the unwrapping in the fall seasons; neighborhoods drape with

toilet paper, fireworks abandoned confederacy fall like leave in the autumn 

breeze, swaying on its periphery rite.

Just as in Sparta, Leonidas blazed forward, horns held high.

Now naked trees stand erect; adorn perennial like cold stone terra-cotta

warriors: in the abolition of death, having defoliated now pale Skeletor 

vines bleed wax coded down its protruding truck.

Each bark was engraved with a second-century immortal pharaoh.

Gypsies dance around where witches were once martyrs and burned at

the stake.

Sculpture at the hands-on Leonardo de Vinci:

Displayed at the Smithsonian Institute.

Where Renaissance overshadow, gothic looms near the 

Leaning Tower of London.

Bare and leafless, the London fog rises ominously as the backdrop 

image fades:  

Sends Stonehenge to the source of her fertility.