With its brown leaves cascading down into the duff,
The pithy oak retires,
Should her scraggly limbs fail to show,
That the wind wooed her bare
That wind which wails ‘gainst her frame;
And over all traversing its pique.
A-journeying through the woods
For some time, we observed
That if the wind failed,
Much less hope had we.
But, stoic as a nun,
She welcomed us
And like fruits of her womb,
Even as the darkness intensified there.
Like dry rot, we took to her belly
Though our enduring faults we feared
May get too close to her crux,
Making her feel heavy —
Too heavy to hide our faults,
So heavy, she would uproot &,
Finally, satisfy the wind.
She stood, unflinching.
Neither the ghosts I’d gathered,
Nor imminent winter disturbed her,
So we creeps held fast,
Curtaining the outside world,
To which the frosts may do their best.
This, of course, displeased our melancholy guide.
Rejected scribes will know him;
Forbidden lovers worship him . . .
He that blinds at first pinch,
Inspiring bitterness & jeopardy besides.
But even spurned blind, none could resist
The resplendent horizon’s allure,
Coming not even a day after our oaking
And then, instead of fear, a revelation.
I, at least, could not deny it;
Not as I perceived the other
Whose radiance was a manta manifesting,
Brilliantly able to warm the frigid:-
Those lost and falling everyplace . . .
Those of my ilk embracing the ghostly
As life deforms & slips into despair.
Indeed, she appeared,
Like a soft fur chasing the chill.
Hope sprung from her,
Like a sculpture in relief
An unearthly wonder,
She greeted, not with words;
And I daresay,
Without this dancing redeemer,
I may have lost a season —
Albeit the underrated winter.