five leaves

Five leaves
Are all that’s left
On the greying, knotted
The last fig stolen
By the glossy black raven
An afternoon ago.
No green hand-shaped leaves
Shading the grass.
No bright green perches
For the chickadees and
Just stark, dramatic
Wooden fingers
Reaching toward the
Brilliant blue sky.
A place for visiting phoebes
And towhees to rest
Between scavenging for
Tiny winter morsels.
Dozing between seasons.
Dreaming of what’s to come.
Holding the very essence
Of life somewhere deep within
Its coldly smooth trunk.
Hiding its mysteries
In the dank ground below.
Not really dead
But momentarily lifeless.
A surrender to the moment.
To the darkened days
And bitter winds.

Waiting for the beckoning
Of warmer light
The hum of bees,
The awakening pulse
Of golden liquid
To push through its solid
Waiting for the moment
To return.
To give hope and shade
And sustenance.