Bathed

Bathed

The gentle rays of sunlight
warm a frozen lake,
and bathe the White Oak branches;
tickling them awake.

They slumber through the winter,
their buds will greet the spring.
With warmer breezes from the south,
the birds will now take wing.

Thawing ice leaves jagged scars,
on ragged shorelines.
An icy grip is now released,
as Nature leaves her signs.

The wrath of winter fades away
and what survives is scathed;
then left to heal in the spring,
the branches, once more bathed.

T.L. Finch

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