A Ruby In Winter

A tree carved into the brazen edges of light is the color of dark and cloaked with virgin snow. Its fingers clasp an afternoon moon in the chilled blue of the sky. The color of the milk that squirts from the teat every dawn, dripping frugally at the end. Tin drops slide off these faded black branches, melting under this sun. A yellow- tailed finch, its wings soft as the peeling paint of our 1800s home, grips the spectre-like arms of the tree, its shape a yellow glare. It is tucked into its breast. A red berry is in its beak. It is a ruby gleaming within the Winter's sleepy, milled land as lush as its feathers. .