desperate malfunctioning branches
cloak the gray winter clouds.
the winter air hangs a dead still in lieu of the leaves.
that's fine, the sooner the snow coats
the dirt floor the better.
it'll be like a blanket,
knit from the condensation of angels and gods.
supervisors of this natural phenomena,
i see a wicked gray cloud,
letting a warm beam of light lay shadows
where above them dance the dead oak
in the breeze.