Pine trees,
Dead from the neck below, are my neighbors,
Lush in verdant livery
Until they show their knobby knees.
They pack like crowds at winter bus stations,
Waiting for vessels that do not arrive
Unless with snarling maws or crackling brights.
First to arrive, hungry and thin, eager to please,
But so soon shaded and eclipsed
Lingering until their bristled skeletons
Chatter through windows,
Fill my doors.
Finished June 23
No comments:
Post a Comment