Saturday, April 01, 2006


I see them everywhere

cradling in the still bare wintry branches of the trees
complicating the stark simple lines and angles

Precarious, bleak, risky lattices of twig

nestling exposed
balancing reckless so high above the ground

tenuous fragility of interlacing branches
skeletal leaves
breathtaking even at such a distance





They raise a chord of identification in me
a pang of painful recognition

unfeasible, extraordinary they have survived the winds and blasts of winter

They must be sturdier than they look


Will the shoots, leaves, growth, verdure of spring and summer shield and protect them?

Hide from prying eyes like mine
buffer from wind and weather

secure, fix and fasten

grow into a green cocoon-womb of warmth and safety
private, intimate, shared refuge

flesh and blood on bare rib and bone


life enclosing nurturing life?

One can only hope

Some of these trees have just been brutally pollarded.
Mutilated knucklebones gesturing obscenely into the sky.
Empty. Bereft.


Blogger Kitty said...

"Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul -- and sings the tunes without the words -- and never stops at all."
Emily Dickinson.

You'll be OK, Lettuce. I know you will.

Now unlimpen yourself or I might have to come and water you!!

4:37 PM  
Blogger Molly Bloom said...

Brilliant poem. Stark and poignant.

11:24 AM  
Blogger Bird said...

this is a lovely piece - precise, clear, beautiful.

5:23 PM  

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