Winter Tree

There are no words at the end of the day,there is only this bare branched tree in a field of fogand the birds that come and go as they please.

By now the sun is finding its way to other side of the continent,leaving us in the dark.

It’s true that the poor will always be poorand that the few carry on the tradition,like a dam that hordes the perpetual flow of the riveras the land dries upfrom that which belongs to us all.

Winter tree in a field of fogwith its colors drained at the branches,how patient you are, how foreboding,lifting the wind quietly tonight—

in the cold hush of snow.