Birches
Low bending to the wind,
Soft moaning from the cold,
Wrapped up in fading skin,
Three stoics growing old.
Their curled arthritic hands
Make prayer as saints in churches,
Seek respite where the strands’
Fronds sashay akin t’ birches.
Ordained to wear white frost,
Let finch and nuthatch play,
Not knowing what is lost,
They make woodpecker’s day.
Ménage-a-trios takes root,
Becomes their way of life,
The point of this left moot,
While mistress serves as wife.
Soft halo o’er the moon,
Trails little icy laces,
Time freezes far too soon,
The lights upon their faces.
Just lay me underneath,
When all such lights have gone,
In shadows, trace soft wreath,
While we await the dawn.
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