Shadow
is all fading sunlight
makes of trees.
Oaks grow horizontal.
Pines likewise.
The ice itself is the forest.
Slowly,
we trudge through
black trunk,
bodiless branches,
the crust
of treetops.
Nothing
but dark feelings
rapier thin.
Silhouettes
in all
our depth.
*
This post is part of a series on trees. Submit your tree features to snakeoilcure[at]gmail[dot]com.
* * *
John Grey is an Australian-born poet, and US resident since late seventies. He works as financial systems analyst, and has been recently published in Xavier Review, White Wall Review and Writer’s Bloc, with work upcoming in Poem, Prism International and the Cider Press Review. John Grey has been published recently in The Talking River, South Carolina Review and Karamu with work upcoming in Prism International, Poem and The Evansville Review. His other contributions to Snake-Oil Cure can be found here.
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