Thursday, March 31, 2022

poem

 Winter Breaks

I’m that scraggly tree over there

Looming over all the rest,

A wicker brush dusting

Off a film of ash


An arthritic claw 

Grasping at empty gray,

Ruing all the lovely things

No longer there to clutch  


I think I’m the one

Scratching at the sky 

Shaking my fist

In a shivering rage


But it’s just the March

Wind rushing in

To fill the void left

By a fleeing winter chill


That sways my trunk and limbs

And the saplings and hibiscuses 

And the reeds and grasses,

And all the world I’m standing in


So I'll give up the scratching

And imagine the winds as the work

Of shamans blowing into being 

One more fecund spring 


3/31/22

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