Winter’s Nest

by Emily Gormley 

through the foggy car window

smudged with years of excited and bored fingers 

pointing out landmarks in awe, or languidly drawing shapes, 

i see a tree in the painted sunset sky. 

the tree is bare; it is winter. 

where the leaves once were, 

and will be again, 

i see a window to space through an intricately patterned curtain. 

in fragmented segments 

cut up by thin lines of bark 

i can see a universe of colors 

like a stained glass window. 

the delicate lace of the bare tree 

vulnerable and cold 

like the bodice of a lover just beyond grasp 

exposes a nervous system in the branches of the branches. 

i could take it in my hands and caress it softly 

protecting the fragile tendrils from any harm. 

through the seasons of loneliness, we give each other comfort 

until the leaves come back to hug their steadfast friend. 

it is a winter evening, 

the sun has kissed the tops of the trees goodnight 

and has left a pink-orange glow 

with the promise to return tomorrow.