Seasons are delayed between

city buildings. The Red Oak waits

to provide an encore seen by few.

The Sycamore’s leaves have

long since been taken, now

the ground may be painted like

a sunset. If she waits long enough

the early snow may preserve her

work. Things don’t work like

they used to, and the seasons find

pause in the alley. Just peaking

above my bedroom window,

The Red Oak missed the signs

from her friends, but hurried

when she could, just a moment

late, applauded for her untimely show.