The Fresh Wounds of Trees

Orchard trees rest bare in winter

A time for removing broken branches

For guiding form and frame

Somehow, in the cold, false death of dormancy

Sap flows from the lignified veins

Sugar starved and anxious, honeybees

Find the fresh wounds

My saw has opened

They come on warm winter days

Of crisp, blue sky

Sopping with gossamer tongues

The cut surface come alive

With the trees’ sweet blood

Soon transferred to shivering warmth


©2020 Lenny Wells

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