Poem: Ice On Oaks

 

 

Ice On Oaks

 

flashy branches

stream whorls of sun.

a surreal, hypnotic thrill;

and yet not kind,

amok with ravenous gossamer,

soon to succumb

to purple nightshade.

 

crepuscular

 

trees sip wine-tinged tears,

a haunted, fated, frozen sparkle,

mantles wistful and serpentine,

half-remembered

to the raucous, glorious day,

desperate now

for a mere molecule of star.

 

and yet, could heaven

be a pomegranate moon,

gorged on delight,

in hover above the medusan heads?

 

oasis

 

bathed in the spectral,

legions of tapestried glints,

pinpricks illimitable yet soft,

joyful of midnight?

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