Now it pays irregular visits . . .
I lift my head and suddenly
the trees are mysteries
in the half-light.
The corner bush
(crushed against stained siding
and mangled into geometric form)
becomes unbearably tender,
its evergreen fingers holding
a down of snowflakes
unbroken, unmelted.
. . . the dusk has eaten almost all color,
but not the red slash of cardinal
foraging under the dormant apple tree.
I lift my head and suddenly
the trees are mysteries
in the half-light.
The corner bush
(crushed against stained siding
and mangled into geometric form)
becomes unbearably tender,
its evergreen fingers holding
a down of snowflakes
unbroken, unmelted.
. . . the dusk has eaten almost all color,
but not the red slash of cardinal
foraging under the dormant apple tree.
A beautiful poem, with your customary keen visual sense and a nice internal rhyme (sort of!) toward the end with "foraging" and "dormant"! To paraphrase the psalmist, your leaf does not wither -- no, not even in January!
ReplyDeleteThanks, Tom!
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