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