Tuesday, December 4, 2012



Soon, flowers. White petals here
above smooth bark. Gray for now,

dark bones of the tree. Months more,
sixty snows more, could be hundreds,

cannot yet count this year’s crop of
snows. Later, surely, white petals,

tree full of white moths come to say
The ground is soft enough to dig.

1 comment

  1. I love this poem an incredible lot ...your crop of snows...it is tough painting with words a scene that is already so beautiful and yet you find a way! Lovely! Happy Tuesday Hannah.


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