POEM: BRANCHES February, 2012 Pat Spilseth
Broken twigs twist in the wind,
free fall
as squirrels jump and soar into empty air.
Skeleton fingers
scratch the sky.
This is the winter
that never was
No skaters;
a lone skier glides past
random fishing shacks
on the frozen lake
Danger lurks beneath the ice.
Power ridges buckle,
heave ice floats into monster piles,
flowing water drowns interlopers.
Beware
winter’s ice is not safe.
But it draws me
into its emptiness
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