Friday, February 5, 2010

Shadow


Shadow, grey  and monotone,
spills out of the tree
Sketched by the sun onto
the cement outside my stoop
The pencil invisible to touch  not sight
draws it's neat lines
reciting it's shape
though, fine detail incomplete
and as my eyes follow
the shadow to the authentic form
It too is drab
Roots, rising just above the earth,
long arms reaching
Fingers spread unremittingly
out and up to the sky
It's silhouette
in waiting
for the spring to bring
life to it's winter shadow.

1 comment:

Annie said...

There's good effort in this poem, and unique imagery and ideas. I like the idea of the shadow being like pencil lines sketched by the sun, and I enjoy the final lines: "...Its silhouette in waiting for the spring to bring life to its winter shadow."