The winter trees reach their crooked boughs to the sky, their meandering bones now unburdened by the weight of summer's fleshy foliage. I envy their redundancy, their ability to repeat themselves year after year without hesitation or apology. They know nothing of pandemics or polemics. Taking their time, they shift effortlessly from death to life to death again without anguish or complaint and will bear the weight of tomorrow's snow better than we who feel the heaviness of all things--the morning coffee cup drawn from the cabinet, the antique desk, the monochrome photograph in its gilded frame, the masks and the distance we must keep-- wishing we could be like the winter trees desiring their emptiness, their quiet contentment, withstanding all things without irritation or judgment, they endure, each one waiting patiently with no lamentation or bitterness, humbly offering up their limbs to the world without expectation or sorrow.
About the Poet:
Laura Stringfellow (www.laurastringfellow.com) writes both verse and prose poetry, holds an M.F.A. in Creative Writing, Poetry, and hails from the muggy strangelands of the Southern U.S. Her work has appeared in various literary journals and magazines, including Déraciné, Black Poppy Review, FERAL, and Coffin Bell.