Were those trees here a month ago?
They grew so fast, a weird surprise,
the kind that makes your neck hairs rise,
especially since their twisted shapes
resemble shrieking men or apes.
What rare and potent kind of seeds
makes trees with faces sprout like weeds?
Meanwhile, my hands feel stiff and old,
the joints grown rigid from the cold.
I could just leave, or so I thought,
but now I'm rooted to this spot.
Or perhaps that's all just in my head,
a symptom of some rising dread.
A chill wind blows, my body sways --
I raise my arms and sleep for days,
and think that I shall never dream
a poem as lovely as a scream.
Copyright © 2020 by P. B. Pitsker. All rights reserved
