Emptiness fills my world
this harsh late-winter day;
cold seeps into my walls,
sits heavy in my rocking chair,
spreads icily around my yard, a shroud
wrapped tight around the color
that I ache for in my life.
The trees in my backyard, stark branches
spider-webbed across the sky, embrace
this leadenness so gracefully;
mystery of stillness,
patience of a waiting rest.
Could it be that angels curl
in those wintered trees, breathe
with them the bitter nights, caress
their icy bark, whisper poems that seep
a solace deep into their veins?
Beneath the brooding skies, I listen
for the rustle of their wings.