December Sky

The sky,

misty grays and white,

woven together,

a blanket, resting gently over the child.

 

Across the dark blue oceans,

the water swaying, side to side, to its own rhythm,

across continents,

green tree tops, and yellow-white sand

 

Below the blanket of sky,

one patch,

once green,

but is now many shades of gray.

 

Looking up,

from the ground,

from the mud and leaves,

and from brambles and branches,

 

To the right,

a brilliant patch of white,

and back,

the tiniest strands of brave, new, fresh blue

 

While the rest of the sky,

the rest of the blanket,

smothering the earth,

is gray, and white, with a hint of steely silver.

 

In front,

the stream sits,

the water unmoving, still,

a dam of leaves blocks its motion

 

It has no current,

It has no life.

 

Ice nibbles away at the edges,

not strong enough to penetrate,

not weak enough to finally lose its hold

 

Spanning the dead stream,

a once mighty tree lies,

its trunk crusted with mold,

plants growing through the cracks of the remaining bark,

 

Its mighty trunk,

so sturdy, strong, impenetrable,

yet fallen,

sprouts into branches,

 

Started as a great trunk,

Ended in a meaningless twig.

 

Then past the still,

past the dead river, and the once mighty tree,

 

Life emerges.

 

A small bird breaks into flight,

its wings a blur,

and the first birdcalls ring out through the peace.

 

A flit of movement,

brown, grey, black, chestnut,

its tail wags,

as it darts onto the log,

 

The first call from the bird is joined,

one that trills, in powerful bursts of sound,

one that tweets, again and again,

and from somewhere, a putting noise

 

Left

a flash of yellow

a car honks

a door slams

 

The peace

the silence

the serenity is broken

 

The forest is different.

 

The trees are the same,

still silver-gray-brown,

monuments reaching to touch the sky,

to break through the white-gray blanket.

 

The placid stream is still itself,

the ice still nibbles at its edges,

 

The once mighty tree still

lies

broken

across the stream

 

But the life is gone.

 

No darting squirrel,

no flitting bird,

and no more song.

 

The chorus of the birds is gone.

 

Only a small, putting, sound remains

 

Slowly

one bird calls

and the air is pierced

pierced by the brave, blue, strands of sky

and pierced by the chorus of the birds.

 

Life has returned.