The Firs
I’m not ready for everything to die again this year.
The wind is consistently strong the past few days.
The people who come from all parts of the world
To see our leaves change color are leaving.
The ground is a sheet of wax paper
Under an overpoured easel.
The firs will hold on.
The dust on the radiator floor vent
Burns from the steamed air forced,
From the hidden hot water
Onto the dead fly that won’t rot.
The firs will hold on.
Through the season of dying,
They don’t.
The refrigerator drones over the fly’s last
Protest as it falls to the faded floor.
The fan above the microwave still hums,
A little more dust, a little more hum,
But it still hums.
The firs weep weary,
Waist deep in wasting.
If you sit still, close
Your eyes and listen,
You can hear electricity
Go into the lights.
