November, Greensboro, third shift sleet
Laminates each branch of the peach trees
With an organic, transparent
Skin, limbs
So productive this spring, so
Slender and plentiful they broke
And broke
With fruit. Nature never tires
Of trying to impress us
Even if it pulls the same predictable rabbits
Out of its hat
Of loose change. These trees against
The x-ray of
The night are slow
Blood explosions inside
Hardening glass arteries,
Lungs inhaling
An oxygen of sleet
That rings like a river
Of steel wheels shimmying
Under the weight
Of the sun
Rolling in. Soon,
The trees will crack
Their knuckles as localized showers
Develop
Under each
Arboreal cloud; steam
Will rise from the invisible
Fires smoldering inside
Each factory of leaves;
But for now
You celebrate winter’s
Industry
And this is the end
Of your shift,
Though the sun
Will clock in like a good-
For-nothing-freeloading-relative-
Of-the-boss,
Your job is done, you can
Kick off your boots and
Sleep.