The Frost-Tree

 

 

You wondered, had a storm torn

those branches but decided their lopping

was too regular, strategic, too even 

for an animal’s bite, or lightning.

Had a benign tree-surgeon

stripped branches for the sun’s return:

end-weight slashed for  new bark in spring

or had frost’s conspiracy with freeze-seal air stunned

with a death blow sharper than chain-saw

or axe? On Christmas Eve, the tree,

with its squiggled haphazard

glitter made sky shapes peel

themselves from the frames of twigs, then flying,

let old stars begin their dying.