Prelude

for my father, who art not

The trees are unmoving against night's shroud

the deciduous hundred-armed ones like gigantic

splayed brooms, and the evergreens piercing the loom

of sky, proudly hoarding their finery in the frigid clime.

I am in awe of their refusal to surrender, but it is

the barren I adore, which are more like me: vulnerable,

trembling beneath burdens on willowy bones.

Zigzagging the heavens, their frailty is secretly potent.

Soon the sap will rise, and eager leaves unfurl, those

kaleidoscope kittens stretching from slumber;

the air will mazurka magics of scent and shape and hue.

Oh, I do so love the seeming-dead; it is they who whisper

that things are not what they seem;  that winter is no demon,

but a precious prelude to spring.

Copyright Julianza Shavin 2008