Trees lurch from an icy wasteland,
their spindle fingers clawing at the sky,
hoping for something to grab hold of,
but there is nothing they can do-I told them so.
Their roots reach too deep into the ground.
There is no way to loosen earth’s grip
unless, of course, I chop them down.
But it strikes me that death is not what they desire.
The poor things are too stupid-they think they can fly.
I can fly-away
-in a plane.
Or, perhaps, not.
Perhaps only in my mind.
But they can’t.
And so I think they are afraid.
Sometimes I am afraid too-to be left here.
Sometimes I fear a horrible beast will set fire to this ice-and it will melt
and we will all drown.
flailing and choking on the last of our breaths
until we quiet and sleep
and the ground once again freezes and sprouts trees born of loss
so that they too can reach their spindle fingers into the sky and hope that in the gray nothingness lies