Making Sky
By Richard M. Grove
Ripped trees tearing fall,
Sky struck branches rattle,
Every which way piled,
Brittle grey arms lie,
Now in shadow,
Beside brother's branches deep.
More cutting,
Dismembered, chopping piled,
Waiting winter's frosty creep,
Now in warm brilliance stacked,
Damp musty undergreen,
The first time mother earth,
Gentle breeze and sky has reached.