I-88

The long shadows of winter,

of bright, white birches;

their gnarled and arthritic fingers stroke the sky,

reaching for a sun that barely rises before it sets.

Other trees, gray and patient, stand waiting. 

Their gentle sway suggests no hurry.

They trust that new buds will come soon.

But the white birches have an anxious gleam.

Creeks are frozen into miniature glaciers –

rocks and fallen limbs scattered in silence,

like the limbs of drowning men.

In another season, the precocious creeks 

are kinetic in the still woods.

In another season, they are renewal,

carrying the tired and broken bits of these mountains away.

But even the creeks are silent.

Only the white birches refuse to accept the patience of winter.

Only the white birches reach for the coming spring.

© Jeff DeBellis, 2013

Birches in Winter
Photo by Axel Kristinsson
from Wikimedia Commons