Sinewy and frayed by bitter gusts
it stalks the fringes and invades
by peering through a pane that reveals
a melancholy stare at its turbulence.
Over a missing headboard and through a curtainless window
the mad bough sways countless tendrils
against a gray January sky that hides the time of day.
Quiet and still not wanting to disturb
I sneer at the morphing maze
that hides where it begins and ends,
a simulacrum mocking my deficiencies.
Instinctively I know and dread Sundays
with its guilt-ridden church bell lure
for there is something in that ringing
“makes a body feel alone.”