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.