Pitch-black limbs,
A winter’s nigh’,
Cobalt gray
Ceilinged-sky.
Waiting, stiff,
To receive
Blanket white,
A winter’s weave
Of falling
Flakes,
Upon each
Limb,
Their stark
Pitch-black
Begins
To dim.
For black
Goes soft,
With white
On bark.
To show
How light
Can pierce
The dark.
For light
On frozen,
Warms
The chill
In black,
Stiff-souls
Of obstinate
Will.
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Then ceilinged
Sky’s,
Eternal-
East,
Will boast
The sun,
And it’s
Increase…
Upon each
Limb,
Now transformed
White,
Hoping
Spring,
Is soon
In sight.
Where once,
Black-limbs,
Were stiff
And frozen…
Bend in
Wind…
The forest-
Chosen.
JMJ
Long-Skirts
1/23/05
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