Time to rest, trees.

A prayer to right the seasons. Happy New Moon! 🌚

Last winter: no snow days.
Instead, late in the school year:
wild-fire-smoke days.

We usually get some snow.
Freeze and thaw all winter long
and snow collects a few
days or weeks 
then leaves again.

But last spring, the sled
taunted us on every trip 
to the basement.

"When will we get to sled again,"
you asked,
and what could I say?
A chaotic system;
hard to spot patterns.
Maybe next winter.
Maybe never again, at our latitude,
in our drifting 
bioregion.

Today: snow. Said the forecast. 
Maybe on the walk to school.
Slate skies and heavy air.
The Bradford Pear trees
on Queen Street
surprised
with still-resplendent 
autumnal gradients,
leafy crownfulls of
dark red orange purple brown.

"It's time to rest, trees," I said, 
and suggested we sing to them,
"let it go, let it go!"
and you loved that.
We passed a Gingko,
naked but for 14 countable leaves,
right next to another Gingko,
still holding on,
all that uncountable bright yellow,
and you shouted,
"Let it go, trees!
All your friends are already undressed!"

Still, you wanted to know
when would it snow
and what could I say?
Hard to predict; weather.
I hoped the forecasters were right,
I hoped on the walk to school,
but the clouds aren't ready yet either,
to let go.
I don't know why.
We shouted at them, too.
A prayer to right the seasons.
A prayer for us
to loosen our predictions.

Let it go, trees.
Let it go, clouds.
It's time to rest.
Let it fall, trees.
Let it fall, clouds.
It's winter now.
You don't need to hold on anymore.
You can let it go.
You can rest now.