Trees in the Fog

A Poem by Maia Stark

Like a crow clutching at

clouds of smoke,

the beech’s bare, black fingers

rake the gray.

Skeletal digits swathed in pillowy fog

sift out shadows,

as if straining for some last morsel of night

before the breaking day.

Arthritic twigs relax and then like some spidery child

stroking her grandmother’s gossamer hair,

long strands of sunlight appear;

rays running through their branching palms

and up

into the air.