When the sound of the trees
goes from swooshes to crackles
and the greens give way
to black and brown spackles
and they all play percussion
on their own dry bones
dig out the flannels
dust off the hearthstones
measure your books
and quilts by reams
and see to your stock
of winter daydreams.
Snow on sticks
soft yet stark
my garden’s reduced
to a bony park
the white melts away
and all that’s left
are skeletal ruins
of softness bereft.
When my old bones allow
I will still stop and bow
to pick up an acorn.
My obeisance
to mysterious nascence
the hatted tree ready to be born.
Thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
Oddments 