ON BARE HILL
Hard to find footing
by frozen pools
that will be vernal
in months to come
red cedar plumes
sprout and re-sprout
damaged by wind
and deer browse
their needles sharp enough
to prick even a callused thumb
crushing it for scent
where the west wind
tore out the lead
the tree forms a cup,
an uplifted crown
a bed in which
a body could be held
soul floating upward
from your branches
the summit ground by ice
swept hard and weathered
snow drifting in the lee
clouds streaming over
--Stephen Lewandowski
poem appeared in Underfoot, Mayapple Press, 2014
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