shredded by time,
A coffin day.
I don’t know what to do when it comes down to it;
Nothing seems to say itself,
It just all seems out of proportion,
There is no spring back in the touch, no sap of life,
My fingers are aching with the sadness of it.
And there’s the stupid sun, spreading itself over the morning.
Look at that.
A tree down for the winter,
Gone, gone. Gone, gone, gone.
They say the sap is just below the surface,
Sticky with life, rich, and waiting.
|Colorado, Winter 2014|