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?