the stubborn oaks

the roses are sleeping

beneath the blanket of leaves the wind

has knitted and ripped from the trees.

only the stubborn oaks still cling

to their garments, as if they were too proud

to admit that, like the rest of us,

they are naked as death. or perhaps

it is not pride after all, but reverence

for the Clother of all things — Who grows

them new gowns with every spring.