Yearn for Trees

What became of timber

on winter's wilting eaves—

like lines of coal the maple boles

bare-broken on the hills.

What became of silver

of aspen's peeling bark—

pale plates dissolved on snow-still knolls

a crackle in the dusk.

And trees that breathed

now still and seethed

frozen in their hearts—

but arms upflung

slivered  star-like, clung

to skies absolved from sun.