Leaves curl off sticks like human tents,
Propped to last a night, not the year,
Minute hooks shake roughly in the expanse,
Stiff zips grit teeth as the rust weirs.
Fabric’s fluff when the world is cold,
Boots aren’t stable when roots are bare,
Trees are twigs when empty and bald,
Wind at the frame ruffles through hair.
This tent leans with the frozen drips,
Red and still pale at the same time,
Camped but so nearly to unclip,
Collapse from tips and pitch in slime.