If the Birches Bend

if the ice weighs

down the limbs

shimmering until they break

ugly cracking shattering

raw black and brown

in all the white and ice

as the benches wait

quietly empty below.

Do they wonder

if they will be crushed?

Does the cold numb their thoughts?

Do benches ever think,

even on warm summer days?

I am sure you think not

but I wonder if all matter

is energy, is it not

also life? Does matter

not matter?

Does life ever matter?

In the shattered

and splintered shade

of a winter afternoon,

under the broken birches

amid the silent bench

philosophers.