The trees bent, balding,
cane-roots carry the weight
of the elder boughs, clawing
back into the dirt,
many months before
the coming freeze
begins its thawing.
A brown lizard lives
beneath the spigot.
His kingdom is the coiled hose
and he surely thinks
that he is the lord
of some great,
black serpent.
But, like the trees,
he is as brown
as the leftover leaves,
and faced with winter,
even lizard kingdoms
will fall.
Bend back to the earth
and rest your chin
on the serpent’s black skin,
O’ fragile king.
Blessed be your rule,
brief though it be.
© CG Tenpenny, 2020.
