A spike and hammer,
a bucket
unevenly distributed.
The sun means nothing but light,
A bright pylon amongst the clouds,
but its back is turned all the same;
giving its warmth to anyone else.

The freeze isn’t gone,
merely hiding amongst the shadows.

One tree,
prouder than the others, brighter;
stands tall-
an ambassador to the sky,
speaking for the earth of its roots,
or so it seems. Its arms fanned out
in a skeletal embrace.

The leaves are gone,
but the essence inside thrives.

The metal placed against the bark
causes no response,
not that anything is left to shake free.
What is needed is underneath,
a few blows away,
and then-
                  it slowly seeps,
unable to contain itself.

Later we burn most of it away,
so all that is left of that bitterness
is sweet.