I was born bark-skinned and hollow
at the beginning of the fall,
as quietly the leaves donned their colors
before tumbling to the earth.
My roots wound deep,
anchors in a vast sea of
brittle air and harvest blades.
I was dressed a snake,
endless in its hunger,
for all of the rot
I’d buried beneath my skin.
The wind carried whispers,
of change, and stagnation;
the sting that heralded the
promise of snow.
I was born bark-skinned and hollow,
and I held firm
as the clouds began to gather.