… and no birds sing
Etched. Filigree tipped,
the dead of spring. Sapless.
Stark sentinels in white beauty
reach down to frost-silvered grass
and ungathered leaves.
No hiding place for fledglings.
Budding sweetness,
bursts of thin warmth.
Sap-rising. Emanating
upwards and outwards.
Renewal of life and hope.
The fledglings – where are they.