Wednesday, December 26, 2007
A spruce hangs clinging to frozen soil:
here at this river’s bend, winter weighs
heavy with – hazardous storms of truth.
Cloudy virgin ice mirrors and mocks this
spring-doomed tree with erect visions of
youth, still straight with heavenly belief.
Soon falling storms of snow will razor wash
face of lonely branches with an ashen beard,
roots cracking like old fingers anointed at last.