Copyright © 2013 C.L. Mannarino
All rights reserved.
The trees are people,
Their branches are limbs and
Their twigs and leaves,
Fingers and fingernails.
As the cold melts into the bones of the earth,
Their twisted root-feet rise from the ground,
Crashing through the chilly surface with a shower of dirt and
The drip of snowmelt.
Glancing up at the sky,
A young man,
His scarf pulled,
Around his neck,
Hands tucked in
Triangular jacket pockets.
A smile tugs at his lips.
A dimple shadows the corner of his mouth.
“My season,” he whispers, and
His voice rumbles across the plains and valleys bordered by the trees.
Holding himself upright,
He crunches down the path,
His boots snapping ice-clad twigs underfoot.
From his left hand,
He drops a trail of silver sand.
From his right,
He sprinkles dove-down.
The leaves of flowers slice past the lingering snow
As pink noses and the trembling tips of soft, furry ears
Rise from deeply-sunken holes in the ground.