Through bare trees
I can see all the rickety lean-tos
and sheds, and the outhouse
with the half-moon on the door,
once modestly covered in
summer's greenery.
Through bare trees
I can watch the hawk
perched on a distant branch,
black silhouetted wings
shaking feathers and snow,
and so can its prey.
Through bare trees
I can be winter's innocence,
unashamed needfulness,
the thin and reaching limbs
of a beggar, longing to touch
but the hem of the sun.
~ Lisa Lindsey, Bare Trees
2 comments:
Very nice poem. You always find the best poetry!
How are you and the little guy and big guy. Miss talking to you. xxoo
This is lovely, Paula. I know so little about poetry, but when reading something like this I feel the poet must really know me.
I like the look of your blog, too. You've changed it up a bit.
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