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.

Woods

What wonderful city or
Strip of fence could ever
Measure even with the
Power and energy behind
That scraggly bark? What concrete stretch
Through Park crawl can
Compare to the slender
Tendrils that frame the sky
And ultimate jigsaw? And!
What person as profound
And withstanding can a
Wood or stand of trees
Be? Dappled light is
Sifted through the
Branches and poured
Upon the leaves as
Fallen angels lie under
And sleep in death
And watch their friends
Beautiful and clinging.