Bending Bones

They’re tired, so am I.

There’s the snow.

The snow outside bends the

bare backs of branches

bending

bracing

bleeding

bones of wood.

Why do they? Bend, I mean.

Small, delicate, white, iridescent

angels of stars and the celestial sky

drifting down

in the masses by the millions,

settling on the backs of Earth-dwellers,

creatures of the lower land.

Though, they work.

They bury their legs in the soil

and refuse to move, they

stand, firm, tall, proud,

bending backwards and bending bones,

They burn, flare, wither,

live,

they tell tall tales of travels,

build fortresses against the harsh January

slaves to man, punished

so much by them all

but still standing so tall, proud

almost to the point of arrogance

so much to give

yet so little received.

And even I walk under their embrace in the

springtime without

even a second

glance,

I wrote about demons and sword-bearers and

romance and heart, without even a second thought given to

the creatures of the lower land,

dying only to die again.