Five Leaves

Five leaves Are all that’s leftOn the greying, knottedBranches.The last fig stolenBy the glossy black ravenAn afternoon ago.No green hand-shaped leavesShading the grass.No bright green perchesFor the chickadees and Sparrows.Just stark, dramatic Wooden fingersReaching toward theBrilliant blue sky.A place for visiting phoebesAnd towhees to restBetween scavenging for Tiny winter morsels.Dozing between seasons.Dreaming of what’s to come.Holding the very essenceOf life somewhere deep withinIts coldly smooth trunk.Hiding its mysteries In the dank ground below.Not really deadBut momentarily lifeless.A surrender to the moment.To the darkened daysAnd bitter winds.Waiting for the beckoningOf warmer lightThe hum of bees,The awakening pulseOf golden liquidTo push through its solidArms.Waiting for the moment To return.To give hope and shadeAnd sustenance. Waiting.