Alchemy

Ages of dark have left the woods bare here,
Parched, bled of color, character,
Even life: the ghostly blood of air

Drained from trees, the blind
Penury of downed limbs
Scattered on the ground,

Flimsy twigs and clinging vines
That for years had grown around
The aspens, strings finally

Too slight to hold the arms
To which they clung against
The rage and harms of night -

But now sun’s worn crayons
Turn the leaves immense
With the wands of dawn,

Our trembling woodlands
Once again reborn
In the daylight’s tawny lens.

Tippet Alley, July 23, 2025