Again, as in annum past,

The latest covering

peels away,

tatters hang shredded, dripping in rain and wavering in wind,

sloughing off,

and what’s revealed beneath looks raw and tender-exposed.

Yet, morphing from amber to lightened, the new raiment toughens,

stands taut,

carte blanche for coming days to write upon in scars and scrapes and bruises,

till this cloak also grows less than fitting,

must burst apart, hang loose, rip free, blow off, away.

Every year I stand

in some late autumn rain

and look upon this birch and think these things,

and feel my own dripping ruin,

and sigh,

and thank the Designer of birch trees and people

for consequent renewal.

And I wonder whether birches

ever in their earth-life

grow beyond need

for shredding, shedding, renewal.

And I think I know the answer.

~~~~~