Coniferous

It is the season
after autumn
before winter
shortly after
the fall
of leaves
leaving the trees
they once clothed
to stand there
naked
like skeletons
waiting for snow
an ice
to hang off of them.

And I am just like them.
Little pieces
of protection
dying
and falling to the ground
leaving bare branches
for everyone to see.
I wish I could have
grown needles instead.
Covered myself in spikes
that never change,
always protect.
I would be ugly
without decoration
of buds in spring
and lush summers
and flaming autumn
but I would be safe.
My fruit would be
worthless
everyone would know
to keep their distance.
After all,
who could love
something so harsh?