Tomorning

Tomorning
The sky trees fingers
Wire the brightest sky
With lines of almost|growth
Balanced today between
Winter and spring
Dead-not-dead
They push up and out
Into whiteness of air
Pulling me skywards
That's hope then ?
Maybe the stretch and strain
Towards up out
Is all I can have

Standing
Mute and tethered between my earth|past
Waiting for the white|new