Trees
2007 11 09
|
etc
no date
+ 2024
2025
index
home
Silence in the boughs of trees
No wind to ruffle feathers, leaves
These arms that ache to hold the spring
To love the summer's warming skin
That naked now stand in the fall
Like skeletal fingers piercing holes In folds of sky and skin of clouds
They seem that they're forever dead
No life remains, no hope is fed
They only sleep, these timbered knaves
That bookend our lives from cradles to graves
So soon they'll raise their leaf'ed heads
And grace us with raw colour instead
Pollenated by the ease they bring
From winter's chill, once more it's spring