They're naked and empty

Naked and Empty Elms

They're naked and empty against the sky
widespread and waiting. It's two
in the morning, months after the loss

and still, they wait.

There's a guaranteed prize for patience
and for tolerance and for voices kept
inside sap-filled heads where vision
is blurred and sound is distorted.

And I stare through nicotine windows and wonder -
when wind bites their tenderest parts and
ice builds them warbled-glass jackets,
is Spring enough to repay them?

Meanwhile, smiling pines, full-boughed and full-bodied,
glow like painted ladies against December nights,
with arms bedecked in gems, and knees brushed
by pageantry and plenty.