The dead ones reach to brush star specks
From the sky-black collars 'round their necks.
Each wizened, blackened, vacant limb
Hails Orion, daring him.
The stubborn ones cling to their leaves:
Fall vanity of handsome trees--
circumspect, then, drop dry scales.
Wind’s whispers wane as Autumn pales.
They’ll all be barren dead ones soon,
Stark with sticks to frame the moon.
Very elegant.
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