Hoar Frost

A quiet settles the hoar frost,

a deadening as spines form

crystalline in starry congregation.

Still, the ice speaks, sharp 

tongued in brittle panicles

which continue to grow

at less than nothing, and so

I endure, even when

I have calculated 

my self worth in the negative. 

Still, these dove feathers, 

moon-white, alight

and seem to extend

their wings to reascend 

in vapour to the sky.

Still, any further brightness

here would be unwelcome - 

to the deception that life 

has returned amongst 

the beards of frost giants,

protected within a wood,

bridged by others 

who will share this weight.

And unsupported, the fate

of a lone tree is to suffer;

I feel its burden, I think

that solitary trees, under

this emphasis of a sudden

freeze, must dream

of the society of a forest

as the only scant compensation 

for their unspoken loss. 
 
 
Image is from here: https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:D_Hoarfrost_3.jpg

And on Twitter: https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:László_Mednyánszky_Trees_with_Hoar-frost_1892.jpg

https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Oak_Tree_in_the_Snow.jpg#mw-jump-to-license