Poetry

Now you are just a bunch of skeletons
where you are only stripped canes
that point like fingers into the air
as if seeking you can find something
out of the cobalt blue above you.
 
Your branches are still straight
and do not twist into each other
when the icy-cold August winds
do jerk you to and thro
blowing dust
and dead grass against you.
 
Still when spring does come
all of your branches will be covered in leaves
when it seems as if new life rushes through you
and the summer wind comes rustling.