Winter Berries

This wind-bitten tree, a semi dwarf, an exile,

leans its trunk

against the fence's barbs, its scars etched

from weathering.

 

Nearby fields lie barren.

What secret impulse rose into this wayward

flowering? Limbs droop, arthritic,

each

 

lacquered, blood-red fruit a gemstone

in waning light.

Half the tree seems blighted. Where

the trunk splits

 

leeward and overhangs the milkweeds, leaves

curl and brown, berries puckered to black kisses.

This final act is playing out far afield,

unnoticed

 

by whoever owns

the land. The tree, untended, needs amputation.

Or would such severing

quicken

 

its demise? A sparrow flutters off, in no mood

for rumination. Who knows

if under peeling bark some force still slumbers?

And so this tree

 

buries deep its life lines

and holds up its bitter end, its cancering

for all to see:

sky, endless blue, fading day, clouds in flight.

 

And so we.

 

--Miguel deO

 

 

Done