the winter trees are brown with promise
tired snow lays listlessly on the ground
yielding patches of its former glorious
sun soaked chlorophyll drunk riotous color.
this is what we draw:
leaves, fences, faces, time travel,
stacks of books,
clutches of pens,
promise of blank paper,
whisper of time.
this is what we fill with each stroke, each intention,
each bow drawn across the strings,
straining to hear ancestral composer’s articulations
building bridges through generations,
to the seeds of yestertime
without this we are still some form of us
we are still we and
without this we are hollow
maleable
soundless paper marionettes dancing
dangling in the foul wind
of fruitless winter
