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,

vulnerable, outcast,

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


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