Look Down

 

It is winter;

the trees are standing

on the stones.

Tips unsteady,

their branches wavering

under the weight of their trunks;

terminal buds, chock-full

of next year’s growth,

constantly stirring,

searching for precarious balance

in the cloud-whitened

shallows.

Bare toros, stems

seem pedestals

standing on arteries,

arterioles.