The Dead Tree (Poetry)

So thin and naked in the rain
the dead tree stretches to the sky
it will not bud or leaf again
nor feel the wind’s soft wistful sigh.

No birds will nest within its green
it cannot shelter now, nor shade
yet it stands graceful and serene
as though some secret pact’s been made

with all that grows so close around —
for soon, when promised Spring arrives
and shoots emerge from sleep’s cold ground
they’ll clothe the tree in fresh disguise

hang greenness on its white-bone frame
and wrap each limb — defying death
with borrowed beauty — lightly feigned
while sharing resurrection’s breath.