Militant Design
I am the silence when the broadleaf sleeps,
The jagged fortress that the winter keeps.
They call me "Holly," but my roots run deep
In the hard promise that I swear to keep.
I do not soften when the daylight fails;
My leaves are leather, sharpened into scales.
I watched the maples blaze and spend their gold,
Then stand in silvered ruin, bare and cold.
I watched the frail rose wither on the vine,
But the red jewel in my crown is mine.
When all the forest yields its vital hue,
My green is staunch, my crimson is true.
The birds seek shelter in my thorny shade,
A small, dark refuge where no sound is made.
The hungry deer will pass my branches by,
Respecting armor raised up to the sky.
My strength is not in height, but in my spine,
A steady, ancient, militant design.
I am the token pulled in from the wood,
To mark the season that is understood.
I wait for spring, but never bow to fear,
The bright, bold heart of the turning year.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
