Aspen, you stand white and spindly in the blank stare of the winter sun
The straight line of your mottled trunk juxtaposing the curve of your bare branches
reaching up with many-fingered hands
into endless blue.
My gaze is blocked by the sight of one, blackened, deadened branch;
black as the rest is white, fingers broken,
pointing downwards.
pointing downwards.
My sight returns to white.
I run anew up the straightness of your trunk, up the light path on your western side,
straight up, beyond your reach, spiraling
into endlessness.
into endlessness.
