The aspens are turning, my neighbor said.
I went to see. Mostly gold, some red,
They stood and whirled, their white trunks bare.
A bright sheen (spun gold) filled the air.
The whole big hill was turning, too.
Trees from the back came into view.
I tried with a toe and nearly fell,
Like stepping on a carousel.
Here came two close-together trees
Filled up with dizzy chickadees,
And some were upside down and clinging,
Some rightside up, but all were singing
A small, excited dee-dee-dee
As if to say, what a crazy tree.

 

Donald Mace Williams is a retired journalist and professor.

Featured Image: Photograph by Bonnie.


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3 Responses

  1. Don Williams

    Thanks, Joan. It’s nice to have had an appreciative reader. — Don

    Reply
  2. Cheryl Beckley

    October 17, 2019

    Although I have not seen aspens turning in many a year, your poem made me recall their “golden sheen” surrounding the white trunks, especially as they descend into the valley and rise above like a shivering shield. Thank you for your insight.

    Reply

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