December Poem

at the base a hell root
	that at times looks,
		thinning upward
in bent filibustered lines-
	each angling further
		skyward
to the top where
	the thinning stretches
		to a point:
the narrowest black
	branch touching the gray
		gray ceiling,
bracing or embraced by
	the slow caress
		of cold december;
Rain beads along each
	finger like frozen tears,
		back-lit by the 
shifting precursors to heaven.


josh buermann © 1998