Snowbeards (Poetry)

The old men of the trees
comb their snowbeards long into the silence
and contemplate the crystal form
of every flake — its size and weight —
the geometry of prisms — calculate
each probable melt-by date.

Theirs is a brittle science bound
in frozen limbs and changing light —
its slanting angles and the measured drip
of icicles — whose sun-shy knobbled spears
threaten — aimless — stab the feathered air
keep their fragile gutter-grip.

Expressions modify and slip —
the old men lose their dreadlocked white
dislodged by birds — whole clumps shake free
and plunge to ground —
blend seamless with a sighing sound
of resignation — wise
the snowbeards know
the time for letting go.