Having tossed to the wind
its sophistry of leaves,
it looms in the January sun
a skeleton of its former self,
a monument of bark
and stark nakedness
casting shadows on the earth
black and angular
as the arthritic feet of crows.
Like the sinew and bone
once brandishing the hide
of a fabulous beast,
brooking the mire of blood
to grace what meets the eye
with power, speed and beauty,
it basks at last in the cold
glare of revelation,
all pure, dark verb.
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