These trees have become so much more during this winter month.
With so little left of them
I begin to understand
or comprehend
or gain glimpse.
Three seasons rotted off;
This is the nature of these trees and so many others.
I press flesh upon flesh to try to become a part of this.
But in this body I see it too.
There is a core in here
or a tree in this vessel
or a life force flowing.
Isn't it curious when it can be seen? In winter?
How much must be removed
for this to be shown
or be brought forth
or be imagined.
These branches are concrete. They are castles.
Hidden in a burst of birth and haze.
But today we can see them
or I can
or no one at all.
Are we any more real as ghosts?
Flesh-less? Like the winter?
A jigsaw rendering entertainment, remove my pieces and I am
what?
Am I less; My shadows and dreams rotted?
What would a winter make of me?
or my winter ponder
or nothing at all.
While these trees,
Simply being,
Are so much more in winter.
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