A Wintry Morning
Surprise!
Yesterday's cinnamon-stick forest,
To which the eye so accustomed slips past,
Has become a silvery landscape,
Tangled down by sky-sugar.
Strange, ethereal sight.
Rising sun reflects itself
From tips of broken trunks,
Which need no words to proclaim their strength:
"Still stand we,
Waiting for our Spring."
We slide along,
Splitting the scene apologetically
With whoosh of tires.