Countless billions of branches.
Branches grabbing the water from freezing rains.
Water stretches to drip to the ground but is frozen.
Ice paralyzes the warm, cocoa brown of the wood.
Ice belittles and smashes the brown with her glorious gray.
Wide-eyed, focused down my quaint street,
There is nothing but this chaos in my world,
And all of the lines blot the sky,
More lines than sky, lines now black next to sky,
Branches are mysterious and powerful, bludgeoning the gray cover.
I could wander around my neighborhood street,
And count the branches forever, getting lost, starting over.
Everything is dead and the ice would fall and smother my face,
Splattering over and over, shattering and crunching the spirit.
I wish I were a photographer and I wonder how all of this is possible.
stillfugue 
#1 by Life: Between the lines on December 31, 2010 - 7:35 pm
🙂 some images are meant to be treasured in our minds….no need to be a photographer… 🙂
#2 by Carl on December 31, 2010 - 8:26 pm
you are right about that, and when I have the camera, the picture ruins what I had had in my mind!
#3 by Artswebshow on January 1, 2011 - 2:25 am
You are a photographer.
Our eyes and brain and imagination form the most powerful cameras in the world
Excellent poem you wrote here
#4 by Carl on January 1, 2011 - 5:48 am
Thank you for your comments. You are very kind!