hungry branches
stripped of leaves
reach their fingers
to the empty gray skies
along the silent roadways of winter,
there is a barren beauty
in their snow-covered limbs,
the reassurance they provide:
there are still four seasons -
we haven't yet
wiped them from the Earth -
it is stark
it is beautiful
there is peace
it is home
At Work
what stands before you,
the weight upon you,
it is not personal,
the world is not conspiring
against you,
you have not been chosen;
we are but specks
of the finest dust,
we are just part of the machine;
the obstacles we face
are the circumstances
of living a life,
I can still take the air
there is breath in my lungs,
I am nothing
I have choices
I am free