it’s of no consequence
the bare black trees in winter’s drab stasis,
vertical snags frozen in tableau like gnarled crones
all black-souled and twisted
but no consequence to me,
nor the solitary heron still standing, still
stolid sentry in a field’s dead center under grey sky
watching from the corner of his eye that sliver of blue
drifting this way if it will alter his view
for my wife thinks dead wood is beautiful
and maybe she’s right
but my mind is on gnarled twisted humans
in their extremity frozen alone
in fields of their own
scanning to see what slivers of blue
might alter their fortune too.
they, I think,
they are beautiful.
therefore, none of us has it easy.