Trees grow up like cut-outs
From the ground:
Not in shapes, but doubts
Wound inside the cardboard
Of the night, chasms with no
Other place to go; not the heat
Of Christmas lights, just wells
Of blacks and bleached-out sleet.
A colder season coats these rifts
With the crystal wreath of human drifts,
As icy in their rigid view of things
As the frozen backyard swings.
What ecstatic summer sets them free
Like our daughter¹s picture of a tree?
From which tailings of this abyss
Will winter build its adult wish,
If our world¹s ghostly planes
Summon up such arid rains?
What warm embrace do we forego
When we sink like sun at last to snow?