Five Leaves


 Five leaves 
 Are all that’s left
 On the greying, knotted
 Branches.
  
 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 
 Sparrows.
  
 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
 Arms.
  
 Waiting for the moment 
 To return.
 To give hope and shade
 And sustenance. 
  
 Waiting.