The tree behind our house in fall
Looked thin enough to break.
By June it was a wall of leaves.
By now it seemed half fake.
The branches showed their awkward bones.
The wind could pass right through.
It looked like something left behind
When summer up and flew.
I used to think bare trees were dead
Or close enough to be.
Now I just think they’re telling truths
That leaves would never tell me.
A thing can stand through colder days
And not be less alive.
It only looks more plain and hard
When all the green has died.