by Shelby Faulconer
The chills straighten the spines of
exposed trees.
Naked branches warm with a
layer of ice, granted thus by humidity’s
last attempt to leave water droplets
on grass blades, already a feet under
snow.
And yet, the tree understands,
standing encased by moisture,
turn quick by temperature
to frost-plated statues, erected by
silent melodies of winter.
A visible sigh, and one full appreciative
apprehension to this spectacle of life.
[divider]
