The Birches

The quiet lull of winter
Demure grays, muted blues and greens
The skeletal trees naked
without their summer vestments
stand stoic on the side of the mountain

But the birches have a desperate,
misplaced hope in the dead.
Their leaves hold fast through
snow and wind and frigid
air. They dangle lifelessly,
and are full of cracking veins
dry without warmth and water.

The creaking echoes throughout the woods when
the wind frisks by, a sound of winter. But the birch
rattle its teeth and illuminates porcelain bark
like the eyes of a skull, guarding the way into the ancient earth.