December 21st

THE
FOREST

Pitch-black limbs,
A winter’s nigh’,
Cobalt gray
Ceilinged-sky.

Waiting, stiff,
To receive
Blanket white,
A winter’s weave

Of falling
Flakes,
Upon each
Limb,

Their stark
Pitch-black
Begins
To dim.

For black
Goes soft,
With white
On bark.

To show
How light
Can pierce
The dark.

For light
On frozen,
Warms
The chill


In black,
Stiff-souls
Of obstinate
Will.

Then ceilinged
Sky’s,
Eternal-
East,

Will boast
The sun,
And its
Increase…

Upon each
Limb,
Now transformed
White,

Hoping
Spring,
Is soon
In sight.

Where once,
Black-limbs,
Were stiff
And frozen…

Bend in
Wind…
The forest-
Chosen.