Rain falling on a barren tree

A barren tree –

it produces not.  For a season

it’s spindly branches of gray and brown and white

hold nourishment – waiting.

Few dead, wrinkled, sad leaves hold on

waiting for the next blast of the winter wind.

Sight blends.

Rain drops blur lines.

It smells clean and cold and comforting.

Drops soaking up, in and around.

Silvery clear bright spots.

Held but for a breath.

Another comes and

pushes it away.

Always moving

but In that

moment. 

Still.