dead of winter

the trees have been silent lately but
for the occasional moan, pressed
to breaking by the wind; the sun,
choked by damp drear hasn’t shown
his face for weeks; all is gray but,
who am i to curse the day, to 
loathe the rain that swells the creeks
and soaks the earth, kissing the 
roots, the dormant seedling shoots 
messy, messy life, muddy, red clay
paw prints on just mopped floors, no 
matter, there are cool wet noses to
kiss and velvet ears to scratch, and a 
book collecting dust on my nightstand, 
it’s crisp pages longing to be caressed, 
words upon beautiful words whispering, 
the irony...giving voice to muted trees

~kat