Trees in the Snow

Orderly.
The three trees
that grace the field,
stand at attention in the snow,
postcard perfect.

Your hands are cold.
It is, they say, far below zero
and like someone quite senile
and unsure when to stay out of the cold
you stand on the field’s edge,
not just taking a picture,
but savoring it’s snow covered perfection,

it’s orderliness,
so unlike your own heart
that dances like a skeleton in the snow,
all empty bones, clacking
in the cold, fueled
by a heat from deep,
deep
within.

About this poem

I got nothin’. I don’t know where this came from or what I’m trying to say. It just came and here it is. Poetry is like that sometimes. Perhaps I will learn what it’s about from some of you, my readers, who see things I often miss.

Even in myself.

The picture was taken just outside of Dorset, VT.

Tom