Berries remain on the rowan, now;
maples hang clusters of fat seeds, here.
Birches, stripped to the twig capillary, dance
delicate divisions, tipped with catkins.
The meaning of growth is laid bare,
consequences of our gestures
charactered: the comic, grotesque, or tragic.
These outliers catch our eye beyond
upreaching inhabitants of the interior.
Two ravens circle in the sky -
airy, yearning feather-saws fly
where once a you walked with an I.
Two ravens circle darkening wood.
Once a 'nevermore' was 'would?'
and life was good.
YOU ARE READING
Winter Trails
PoetryWinter Trails is an album of my poems, journeying through late fall when the wire of the trees begins to dominate, till the end of January. After promoting it and it soaring to three quarter million reads, Wattpad unceremoniously dumped it. Here it...
