In the horizon-stretched shadows around
a winter sun at earth-belly level,
the tree stands dark and disrobed, naked limbs
raised skyward as if in prayer. Or perhaps
a curse tossed toward whatever deity
(or lack thereof) determines the fate
of upstanding flora in desolate times.

Crystalline daggers in a snowless field
fight to rip themselves from where they’re anchored
to hurl shards of ice against anyone
who dares trespass, dares cross the fence dividing
observer from witness. Is there no help
then for the black-limbed skeleton, sap-dry,
being measured, roots and all, for the wood-pile?

At this image, the road separates itself,
carrying me away from the template
for disaster. Turn the corner, it whispers.
Don’t look back. What you can’t see can’t be hurt.
The shadows elongate as if trying
to erase the distance. But it’s too late.
All that’s left is a twinge as I warm myself
before the fire.