His shadow looms over my stature,

  Invading my solace with a chill,

  That shakes the beautiful leaves, 

   Until I am bare.

   He is unwelcome, but still arrives.

   Crushes the leaves, stomping them onto the ground,

   With no sympathy for their broken state.

   His voice wakes the park—the entire forest.

   A sound loud enough that we cannot hear,

   The screams of the willows and oaks.

   I used to love winter,

   The goosebumps on my arm,

   The shiver of anxious delight when he looked my way.

   Noticed me, sat by my side, talked to me,

   A singular tree among thousands.

   I felt important, wanted, loved

   Until he iced me.

   His frigidity caused all he touched to shrivel,

   Crumbling to pieces

   That he couldn’t care less about picking up.

   It was never his fault, he said,

   It was simply the change of the seasons

   Desolation was simply a consequence

   Of Mother Nature’s brutality.

   He had nothing to do with it,

   Sorry if that was the appearance of the situation,

   Arraigning the blame to assuage an audience,

   He’s allergic to accountability,

   The one thing that gives him goosebumps.