A Knuckle Fist

of trees are aghast at the
irony of it all. Their
half-formed limbs in
magnificent display
hidden by the mist
of morn. Their upper
layers of green
accepting visitors
like a Whiskey jack with
summer on the way.
Sun arises. Steam
of mist evaporates. And
day’s journey is
on the mend again.

© Richard L. Provencher