A downed oak, toppled by time, pithless log
leveled, imploding, rotting edifice
under blown snow; above, warped-and-woven
scene of leafless torsos, sky’s grays threaded
through like tattered banners attesting cold.
The outlook looks inexorably glum,
a festival of numbing, fierce fatigue.
But sketched across like skewgee code, scrawny
branches portend their lush replenishment,
pivot pointless angst toward plush Spring’s caprice.

            —first published in Green Ink Poetry

Share This Post:

Facebook
LinkedIn
Threads
Email
Print

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Please follow our commenting standards.