These trees frozen in a winter’s
moment; mere skeleton’s of
the majesty they portray on
nature’s cue when the curtain
lifts. For now; open, bare;
skeletons without closets.

For these trees, frozen in a
winter’s moment, it’s not so
bad to have hidden themselves
behind nature’s summer wear;
only now, to reveal age, character,
a few with the scars of lightening
attacks, those with curvatures
that just insist on keeping a chin up.

These trees seek no sympathy from
the birds too codependent and loyal
to have made the big flight south;
there’s always a niche somewhere
among the naked branches; always
a small home for those in need,
They seek no sympathy from the soil
once it runs out of its fertile supply.
My father, a former New York City man
lived long enough to know that.

There’s always tomorrow, always
a place to store nature’s script and
learn her lines later. When bare
branches fall only to be hidden by
still more come the following summer.
It is the best way to die; to fade slowly
behind youthful, energetic saplings;
their children and grandchildren filling
hollow voids, carrying on the tradition,
live models for another artist; food to feed
a poet’s hunger; these trees in Winter.

ForPoetry