February, I’ll Miss You

with the wind. Standing upon the doorstep

of the foothills in the same way a tree

burns for no one in particular, every-

thing looks warmer from ten thousand feet. Trees

 

are strangers who pass by one another like

seasons who don’t say goodbye properly,

how autumn misses the leaves. For a tree, the

opposite of cold is what is west of

 

the Rocky Mountains, the gateway to the

free people. They talk to you, the way branches

protect their leaves until they are ready

to leave in a year without rain.

 

Alison Marie Johnston, USA