Branches
If it wasn't for winter,
Who would see
The branches of a naked tree?
Yes, we mourn
Bright this
And Pretty that,
Yet look at the show the branches
Put On:
Spindly fingers brushing the sky,
Some,
Straight up in a pert salute
To the heavens,
Some, wildly white,
Adamant
Against a dark gray sky.
It's their time to shout their glory:
All we have to do is notice.
Copyright © Barbara Boyd | Year Posted 2014
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