The branches of the trees are still sticks,
chilblain skeletal appendages scratching
the blackboard of a Poe-like evening
screeching with crow cries
mourning for the lore.
In over lapping tangles
of self-appeasement
boughs bow fingering bark
eyeing erect trunks.
Sap runs deep gold in the maple
awaiting a red-tipped tonguing.
How I love the apprehension of spring.
Soon the stoic trance the wind-worn
branch will shy.
Dabs and dollops will
prick the sky alive mazing crooks.
Contorted digits will draw on new attire.
The puzzled faces, mind etched from
negative spaces will subside hide-seek;
I will see them form no more.
Persephone’s rise will not abide
the dreary days of Poe or his dead Lenore.
“Fingering Bark” was printed in Tracks, No. 9 of Inwood Indiana. Pick up the paperback from Prolific Press; the stories and poems published online are free to read here.
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