Forests of Glass

The trees are hunkered down

with ice upon their boughs.

The sky is grey as fishing lead,

and the Winter wind blows south.

 

The limbs of the Weeping Willow

fan out like a bridal train

as the willowy wands that dangle

give way beneath the strain.

 

For beneath the gloomy skies,

the trees are dark and cold.

The ice encases limb and leaf

of trees both young and old.

 

The blackbirds come to test the limbs;

the crow and ravens black.

Sometimes the tree limbs hold the weight

but other times they–CRACK!

 

I walk among the sparkling trees

easily imagining they are glass.

Each limb is a beautiful figurine

some blower has thought to craft.

 

When the skies turn blue once more,

the sun will rise above the rim.

And, the frozen forests will sing with light

and the blue birds will add their hymn.