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