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.
