By: Ruth Asch

The trees in silhouette,
laid flat by grey light:
old keepsakes, dry and frail,
pressed on a page of sky.

Only one blot –
twigs knotted, lodged aslant;
a reckless crafting, proffered to the winds
or hungry eye.

Silent and stark –
where their voices petalled
careless flourishes of vernal breath –
dark sleet is strewn.

Cold clamps the throats,
wings and unseen buds;
cloud palls the heart.
We wove our nest too soon.