Tuesday, December 9, 2014

The Waiting-Tree




 They stand tall, dressed in their stark-naked best
Cloth of mist wafts, a silk scarf soft-kissed
And twisted through arms cradling empty nest
Where sky-tears glimmer, gray on out-stretched wrists  

Like longing, they wait; what choice do they have?
Strength of subjection is quietly brave
Futile the tantrum and wasted the tear
Hushed, they garnish the thin edge of the year

There is no fast-forward-rewind on Time’s wheel
Who is so great it can its law appeal?
The tree’s full glory is stripped like a reed
Nature, subject to what God has decreed

…and so they stand tall in their stark-naked best
Waiting for fall to become winter-dressed
There is a startling, sweet simplicity
In the humble subjection of the waiting-tree

© Janet Martin

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