Frost lingers at the fringes
spoils spring’s potential fruit.
Trees lost through the night
lie dormant, become other
beneath blunt blades
the axe hacks
slices still air
splits open winter
cuts deep into dead wood.
Hope splinters into dust
upon frost firm ground
waits to blend
with forgiving mud
the primordial soup
that waits to feed
the seed yet unborn.
© 2012 Joanne Elliott
