Ha, like a cow, I would live my life in a wild field graceful in green brown chaos.  Arches of full red berries, fruit unfit to eat-ripe robust and perfect.  Leaves golden turning brown–easily. 

Cold is just cold.

Lichen-laced trees, scattered flags still flying, applause the cool autumn wind.  Signs of spring nestings in bare trees, songs from wintering birds chattering from hidden holds.

Bushes making cozy briar walls.  New life, end life, green healing, brown leavings–ease in all seasons.  Winter is just a sunrise, sunset cycle here.  There are no tears of change.

But I am a human tree now, beset with feelings and a discerning mind.  I must yield to seasons, but not be stiff and rigid.  I bend.  I bow.  I dance.