The Seasoning

©1992 Susan Noyes Anderson (poem only)

Photo by Adarsh Kummur on Unsplash

Bare branches,
gnarled, athritic fingers,
reaching, groping,
which way out?
Out of the forest.
Out of the snarl of oak.
Out of the tangled confusion
(or intricate pattern)
or both.
All is revealed.
The trunk an aneurysm,
leaking into gray matter,
a textured nevus
on the sky’s skin.
An old tree.
A harsh winter.
But the blue jay
claiming
one barren limb
shrieks Spring.

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