Lichen on rocks,
Scars, marks of winter
Writ large upon the trees,
That lines the path
That wanders away
From the cabin door.
Sentinel strangers
This time of year,
For there is nothing to believe in
When the trees are not in bloom.
The forest is a stranger
When the green leaf goes.
© 2020 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.
Made of sticks and stones 