Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Dead Wood

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