Warped winter wood, scored and scarred
riddled with pocks; once a treasure trove
and cluttered stash of cones and such things.
Nonsense things no longer missed,
but now wrapped in thick scar tissue
a branded cover for warped winter wood.
Broken branches cast impervious shadows
as webs tentacle out with widowed fingers,
spikes and spines point towards irony,
then deftly erase the stagnant efforts
and cast aside hand-me-down yesterdays
- no longer are worthy of attention.
Yet beneath moldy moss spring violets bloom.
-
Alison
Pieces of my life through words and photographs - and maybe a bit of poetry.
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