Winter Trees

A blood red sun
winter bare trees.

Lighting them up
like an art deco frieze.
Distracting the eye from their shadowy bonds
Transformed into sculpted latticework fronds.

A mist of pink froth swirls at their feet.
They stretch their arms wide,
eager to greet
the caress of the wind with a welcoming cry.
Swaying against a soft marbled sky.

Some think that trees are ugly
when nude.
Contorted and stark, their nakedness lewd.
But when kissed by the sun
on a cold winter’s eve.
Their heart-aching beauty
is hard to believe. poem