The world past autumn turns sere and skeletal,
a landscape sketched in chalk and coal, each line
a dormant branch or vine submerged in drizzle,
its flames snuffed out, a flaw in God’s design,
a smudge, a slanted rhyme, define despair
until I see a tree on fire, with jewels
of burning orange light, a vision rare--
an oxymoron nature ridicules.
The poet cloaked in black leaves oval footprints
in the snow, his face a mask of cold resolve,
a fan in his outstretched hand, bears a glint
of spring, a branch of plum blossoms absolves
the winter of its dying dream, its barren strife,
instills a newborn hope and cries, Choose life.
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