To a bare beech

Here are reaching fingers,
clutching brittle, dying remains.
Here are silvered arms,
rain sluiced and wind tossed.
Where skeletal shoulders
bare their shame and
bear the winter of Creation.
Here is the moss stroked body,
Here is the straight formed trunk,
Here is the inner downward thrust
To roots deep underground.
Where something unknown
wants to live.

This poem is unashamedly another “exercise” from John Fox (see last post), based on the format of a poem by David Wiley.
Same tree as last post too, another exploration of metaphor, and perhaps an expression of my mood at the moment.