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# The Firs
- URL: https://www.wonderfell.org/the-firs/
- Published: 2024-08-18T01:37:43.000Z
- Updated: 2026-08-11T18:52:23.000Z
- Author: Wynn
- Tags: Poems, Ma

I’m not ready for everything to die this year.   
The wind is consistently strong the past few days.   
The people who come from all parts of the world   
To see our leaves change color are leaving.

The ground is a sheet of wax paper   
Under a blood-let easel. 

The firs will hold on. 

The dust on the radiator floor vent   
Burns from the steamed air forced,   
From the hidden hot water   
Onto the dead fly that won’t rot.

The firs will hold on.   
Through the season of dying, 

They don’t. 

The refrigerator drones over the fly’s last   
Protest as it falls to the faded floor.

The fan above the microwave still hums,   
A little more dust, a little more hum, 

But it still hums. 

The firs weep weary,   
Waist deep in wasting.

If you sit still, close   
Your eyes and listen, 

You can hear electricity   
Go into the lights.

If you lie back, close   
Your eyes and surrender, 

You can feel   
The Earth spin. 

Winter's freeze freezes.  
Spring's flower flowers.  
Summer's swelter swelters.  
Fall,  
Leaves   
Fanfare.

Leaves   
Fall,   
Fanfare.

Fanfare,  
Leaves  
Fall.

The Season's end  
Ends The Season's  
Season's end.

Words fail   
Watching   
Words fail.

Words

Freeze,   
Flower,   
Swelter,

Fall.

Melancholy mothers nature.  
New England fathers poets.

Days you shut the door   
And the hard frost won’t leave, 

Days you open the door   
And the fever lingers, 

That dead fly that won’t rot.

There’s only: 

Wasting time.   
Watching time.   
Watching   
Firs.

Wait out the:  
Inconsiderate  
Sun.

Who won’t confess his light,   
No matter what I say. 

\~ Wynn \~