Gray Rest

The tree just outside
my window
is bare.
Her limbs creak and
sway with stiff grace
in the late fall sky.
Ash gray and dull brown,
they match the sky
and the mood of the dull day.
It wouldn't be be quite so
jarring if the three
trees just behind
My tree
weren't still adorned in
their scarlet finery,
dancing, despite the
imminent onset of snow.
I can tell, even so,
that their scarlet is dulling,
A slow slipping of color
from bright flame
to cooling embers.
Still,
they are separated only
by a few feet
and a wall.
Maybe it's the wall
that makes the difference.
My tree, though,
is bare.
Not barren.
There will come a time,
as the year and the seasons
tumble in their time,
that her sap will warm
and rise
and spread,
surging upwards,
insistently, and my tree,
now bare,
not barren,
will burst forth
in a riot of color
and Life,
and she will sway,
her limbs heavy with bounty.
Now though,
in the gray of late fall,
now she is bare,
spent,
after a season of
bounty and grace;
she has earned
her gray rest.