Here Stands a Tree: Winter

No life left in the 

branches twisted and bare.

Black icicles hung from the twigs.

Dancing to the tune 

set forth by the wind.

The trunk creaking in rhythm.

Winter is here and 

with it comes the death 

of all and his Dream.

  Our           tra             vel          er 

            go          ne.    In         self

            exile      they      wait

                for the      promise

              of spring,

             the re

             birth

             of this

             land.

Hope abandoned.

Despair adopted.

Cold winds blow 

snow across barren 

wastelands of fields and 

death. . .

J

Artist: Brenda Owen