Morning Poem, March 31, 2015



The black oaks are deciduous dissenters

They do not lose their leaves in autumn

But hold them tight, through the months

Of ice and snow

As if they were some hedge against the windy cold

The dead leaves turn the color of worn buckskin

And somehow hang on.


But now the old leaves

The last vestage of winter

Are gone

And the bare branches are

As open hands, reaching to heaven

To recieve warmth and light

To recieve the new season

To recieve new life.


Copyright 2015

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