She’s beastly thin and needs to eat more food.
Her living - paintings on the ground - a farce.
She’s dressed in clothes of bright and tacky hues.
She’s balding on the top; her hair’s so sparse.
She’s worn and tired, spent and often used.
Her skin is tight, from hardship worn so hard,
Her nails on outstreched fingers bright and lewd -
and always crying, crying from afar.
Remembering her summers, proud and free,
so green - environmental deity -
a beacon shining youthful energy -
and now all that is gone and cloacked it seems
in dimming darkness of the autumn breeze,
so brown, so dark and wooden, as a tree.
I'm so tempted to say this is a "transformation" poem like the ones we read in Grade 9; however, the beginning stanza of eight lines (also called the octet) is already a sustained metaphor for a tree shedding it's leaves.
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