MOUNTAINBURG

Not a thing lies hidden

behind the bare branch –

          the days before emergent buds.

Sycamores silver and white

          golden autumn cast to the ground.

White limbs reaching to the sky, seeking,

          silver fingers thrusting out, pleading,

          bare tips looking to heaven, expecting.

Snow,

like manna,

catching in the bends,

brushing branches,

          clinging to loosened bark and hardened knots.

Whirling,

          lacing cedar trees.

Tabled outcroppings spreading for feasting.

God steps back and says “It is good. It is pure.”

12-27-17