Does the tree, in winter, worry
it will not bud, or the bud brood
it will not crack? Does the green fist
resist unfurling? Do leafy fingers
covet the blossom, or drifting petals
mourn their bliss? Does summer lust
for autumn gold? Do flaming leaves
feel shame at falling?
Let me be this: a tree in winter,
all bones, bark and stark beauty.

© Vicky Arthurs