Some trees are habits.
This one is a porcupine
in December.
Spread like milk,
this one is December.
Some trees are large
like the self is large
said Walt Whitman.
Some trees are human,
they're the death of me.
This one's a terrible
fire, burns to look.
Some trees shake the bunkbed.
Some trees are wood.
This one is an ode to my sock:
"What I like about you
is you're electric fire.
It's warm. It's nice."
Some trees flower
like oranges. This one
is Novembering its way through.
Some trees don't plant to firm ground.
They lose their earth.
Like death in November.
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