Oak Trees Are the Most Hopeful

Because only they keep their leaves
despite a winter hibernation.
Pines while away the winter still green,
a testimony to toughness
rather than hope.
Only oaks cling to their dead and shriveled
leaves in faith of spring's return
and rattle them at you in the wind;
a reminder that frozen and dark
days don't last
and when their leaves finally fall,
green, warmth and sunlight
aren't far behind.

Crawling in Caves & Shadows

Hidden
I’ve stayed, gathering night shadows like small
pox blankets around my shoulders, comfort
in the short term
and, anyway, I already have a hacking
cough.

Tree limb shadows stripe
My skin as if lashes from a lover’s whip,
Cover my scars
Like pale silk veils.

I scutter, low, until transfixed;
a bright moon
nails
me naked to the forest floor
stripping layers and masks
collapsing shuttered
realities, narrowing
possibilities like a box opened on a dead
cat, a wave not just broken
but that never was.

Staring, silent, a dumb
animal, clawed night fingers
thrust up from tree trunks
mark time against the wheeling
night sky, stars turned pin-wheel lines
if only the retina carried a memory.

I am pieces projected, scraps displayed
in willful syncopation, beautiful patches
proudly shown to distract from the shoddy
and unfinished quilt. . .
My gestalt thickens,
becoming less protection and more definition.

No dog, but a cold and lonely wolf,
too frightened to seek warmth
and servitude or friendship
at distant fires
so,
I turn, moving into the deeper dark.