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.
I liked your poem. It was well written and amusing. What better?
Joan
Thanks, Joan. It’s nice to have had an appreciative reader. — Don
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.