PINING


Pines drooping with blizzard ice,
shelter bluejays inside silent igloos
of bending arms and evergreen veins.

Small, impatient, wet-gloved hands
place buckets to catch holy tears
dripping from scented icicles.

The after-storm calm is punctuated
by miniature ice slides.
Melting avalanches crash.

Branches begin to rise.
The children laugh and point.
"Look! Green horse tails swatting flies."

Small glaciers flood yards;
melted footprints
rush towards singing gutters.

Broken arms and legs
of oaks and elms
stick out of melting snowbanks.

Better to bend than break.
To pine
while you are still able.


- Judith Pordon

Published in Illyas Honey