Vestige

Come summer

it will crowd with leaves:

at nightfall

alone in the pasture

it will shudder with cicadas.

Now in winter

the narrow trunk

and sweeping branches

sketch an egg-shape

in pencil

against a colorless, ebbed sky.

It is a riddle

on that bare horizon:

not tree so much as

scaffolding

place-holder

cipher

cup

transparent carapace

of winter's no.

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.

Loading...

Loading...