here the trees are still green-
their friendless cry rages
i think of Cathy and
her mad eyes are
suddenly fireflies in the woods
plucking from moss-black limbs,
shards of poetry.
here winter is part tepid,
sprawling shameless on my legs,
below stars, on waves that
smell of pale-green sap
as they strike, with
ruthless angst, precipitate,
and leave them gifts of salt spume.
Linked to D’verse