“Oxford Grey”

 

Black trees stand, spreading lace fingers against the blanched sky

Charcoal sentinels wrapped in sweaters of ice and snow

Ashen arms dripping with white

Bleeding away the winter

 

Aspen lean to the east

Bending, bowing

Under the weight of the elegant frost

It’s only a matter of time before each branch splinters

 

The north side of every building

Has windows of closed eyes;

Dormer frames still shrouded in pale memories.

The lemon brick shrugs its shoulders to the clouds

Warming the south side in the feeble arms

Of the December sun.

 

Handmade truths lack conviction

Yet these naked trees 

Tempt me with the sincerity

Of other towns beyond the edge of this torpid world

And the gray sky chokes my thoughts,

Beckoning winter’s ennui.