A tree carved into the brazen edges of light
is the color of dark and cloaked with virgin snow.
Its fingers clasp an afternoon moon
in the chilled blue of the sky.
The color of the milk that squirts from the teat
every dawn, dripping frugally at the end.
Tin drops slide off these faded black branches,
melting under this sun. A yellow- tailed finch,
its wings soft as the peeling paint
of our 1800s home, grips the spectre-like arms
of the tree, its wings a yellow glare.
It is tucked into its breast.
A red berry is in its beak.
It is a ruby gleaming within the Winter's
sleepy, milled land as lush as its feathers.