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DRY BONES.
On raw sky etched, its branches bare
Float, boldly patterned, on the gray
And mauve of softly fluid clouds
Which sculpt the ceiling of the day.
In winters past it nurtured hope
Of green rebirth when spring arrived,
But sap has bled and life has gone
And only dry bones have survived.
These broken limbs, stark silhouettes,
Left to bleach in the solar glare.
When spring attires the festal earth
This relic has no robes to wear.
I like your play on words from the title throughout the poem. It gives it twists, turns, excitement as emotions mount beautifully to seeing the swaying branches in the wind.
A delightful word picture crafted by a true poet. I enjoyed it so much I will read it again whwnever I want to meditate on the theme you so ably crafted.
This is so brilliant in its imagery and feeling. I loved this!