Fairly Certain
It’s snowing
And I am certain
Fairly certain
It will snow again
Settling lightly
Upon the orchard
Just so just so
A whirlwind of white
Unpruned branches
An exquisite chaos
Just beyond
My window for
Nearly thirty years
I have anticipated
A whirlwind of white
Blossoms each spring
But now too weary
Its limbs brittle
Dry old bones
I am certain
Fairly certain
There will be no
Flurry of petals
Only the saw
It’s heartrending
But I am certain
(Never absolutely certain)
I’ll see snow again
Blasted Oak
I am this
Blasted oak
(Well not quite yet
But soon enough)
Brittle wizened limbs
Wrenched just so
Splintered by the wind
A Friedrich painting
A poignant sublime
In stark detail
For your perusal
Far from a sapling
And now no longer
Tall stately timber
(You’d think
I’d be weary of
Ponderous allusions)
Eventually this tree
Will rot and crumble
Wend its way
Returning to loam
Nevertheless
I am this
Blasted oak
David Sapp, writer and artist, lives along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. A Pushcart nominee, he was awarded Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Grants for poetry and the visual arts. His poetry and prose appear widely in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. His publications include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior, chapbooks Close to Home and Two Buddha, a novel Flying Over Erie, and a book of poems and drawingstitled Drawing Nirvana.
Sparks of Calliope 
Your allusion to Friedrich and the firmness of detail he embraced in the midst of disaster and decay is apropos. It seems to supply you with solidity and dignity despite your wrenched, wizened limbs etc. “I’m still here,” you seem to say.
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