Reaching over the arbor’s lattice
Once green, now ashen, leaves
Tightly curled, tenaciously
Cling to barbed limbs.
Perhaps asleep, there is no
crowded display that comes
of buds and dense blossoms,
nor the bees and beetles that carry out their
mortal share of summer work.
Now the wind trades easily between
The tangled, thorn-locked, stalks,
That make their own peculiar duet –
Ticking, scraping, whistling, upon
and through the weathered arbor’s rails,
The fallow music of a storm.
When brief respite-warmth is offered,
The frozen ramble of boughs and leaves
Labors through the day, preparing
for the leveraged buy-out of spring,
the public trade of summer. Weighted
and burdened by snow and ice, still
it bends and waits, digging deep, holding on
to its immortal share of winter work.
Dr. Cutting will be playing his trade on my thumb tomorrow. Again, it is day surgery. Hopefully this time, a more intricate and involved fusing of the IP joint of my right thumb will take hold, and I will truly be at the end of the surgery tunnel. Believe me, I have had enough. . .