Bared barren fingers
of skeleton trees
pull close the fickle cloak of nature,
woven from winter’s white dreaming dust.
stretching longingly towards
the setting sun,
penniless patron of the in-between.
anticipating the birth of spring
+ mourning the death of fall
now, it’s leaves are all gone,
leaving behind a
blushing brown limb,
ashamed of it’s nakedness.
stripped stark + somehow forlorn,
the perfect poster child for nostalgia:
a tree in winter, caught between worlds,
is somehow the most beautiful of all