lies are where the truth starts

to win, the whole of it

pushed down only to rise


goodness stays pure

despite what those who can’t

handle freedom

may say or wish


bare crooked seasons

the thing about winter

is not the cold but the bare

brave beauty that comes

from the letting go

of brown dead detritus

–a big word for the lost–

determined to resurrect life from the dark.

Shine, then, crooked

branches, reaching sunward with hope

always of spring,

and unafraid of the changing