The trees emboss their journals
on the woolen sky-
the thick, bold lines of branches,
tapering to whispers and innuendos.
Here the birch grumbles in thick black
the white paper of her skin peeling and muttering.
The oak next to her shouts in pale lichen
and the surprised open mouth scar of
a woodpecker hole.
Across the street, the apple tree
freed of its fall bounty
lifts his arms in deep brown arches,
and when the freezing rain comes,
conducts the chiming drapery
with the lightest touch.
Bones speak beneath the snow,
Embraced by roots
who murmur this season endlessly,
reading the cold