Tuesday, December 29, 2015

SEVEN DEGREES

Seven degrees. Sun setting on my east.
On my left, a single row of trees
That stand sturdily
Amidst the chill of year's end.

They look down at me. Down. At me.
They utter narry a word,
But their glances pierce heavily
Through my thick winter wardrobe.

I look back. I stare back.
Can a tree still be a "tree"
When its leaves are no more?

What good are you, then,
When you fail to give me shade?
How can you stand up so proud
When you do nothing,
But sleep and wait for spring?

But then, birds still cling onto you.
Squirrels still find your dry branches
Playground for their silly games.
Insects still find warmth
In your cold, empty trunks.

Stop. Stop looking at me
Like I can do better.
I have not gone to this place
In the past two summers.

Today, every green from you was shed.
Not a single dangling leaf can I see
From this cold wooden bench where I sit.
I am taken aback.
I have never seen you like this before.
But, have I ever "seen" you before?

The winter bared to me a part of you
That I will, perhaps,
Never would be able to fathom.
For I am merely a random visitor
Who happened to sit beside you today.
For I am just like everybody else
Who can see your beauty
Even when all life is shed. #