Halloween Poem

Each Halloween

  colossal oaks 

    lurk along streets, parks, hollows.

Stripped of their yellow, brown, and red veneer,

    they shiver

                         silently

      in the October dusk.

They seethe among shadows,

    their twisted trunks grinning

    their limbs vigilant.

 

The squirrels 

-       usually scurrying and hoarding acorns -

    have sought the safety of the pines.

 

The sparrows too

  have fled to the elms and maples.

 

A young boy - on a dare -

  takes the short cut

    through the darkest hollow.

He hears the branches shiver

  in the wind while he wipes

    the sweat from behind

      his mask.

He suddenly realizes

    it has been an Indian summer

      and there should be no breeze.

 

Each Halloween

   these colossal oaks -

       silenced since early settlers

        hacked and sawed

         them into submission -

    twitch in anticipation

      their thick roots

        reach out to trip

      their skeletal branches

        anxious to snatch

          a solitary 

           trick or treater.

 

The boy shifts 

    slightly

   to the safety of the far edge of the sidewalk

    and clutches his bag of candy tight 

      just in case.

 

     But all is silent.  And still.

 

     The movement must have been a trick of the twilight.

 

There is a tug

  and he turns to see a single, slender branch

          caught on the bottom of his bag.

 

It tugs again,

  as if eager

          for the treats inside

 

Then the bag splits

      and his candy spills 

           onto the path.

 

Then the boy stumbles on a thick root

  that was not there before.

His other foot catches a shattered piece of sidewalk

   and he tumbles into the tall grass

   beneath the trees.

He hears the branches shaking

    is a storm brewing?

 

No.

 

It must be his friends playing a trick.  

 

They knew he would come along here . . .

 

Then each ankle is snatched, 

                                    each wrist encircled.

Dried leaves and foul bark

                                      gag his mouth.

Dust and splinters 

                                     blind his eyes.

 

The branches tug 

   more eager than ever

          for the treats inside.

 

     Then the boy splits

       and he spills

         into the trees. 

 

A storm is brewing

  the oaks creak and moan

    as their bases bend and 

    their branches snatch

    at their bloody banquet.

 

This is no trick at all.

 

  The trees have their treat.