Solstice Dance: Trees

Old strippers
careworn and patched

protesting mildly
at the cold

slip off one
brittle scrap at a time.

Slow but easy
with practice,

they bare limbs

stroked by
slender fingers

into a wild frenzy --
heat burns away

in the rattling dance
of bones nearly naked

and nearly dead,
they settle groaning

into cloaks of brilliant
silence to sleep

murmuring to themselves
songs of wanton rhythm,

waiting for the spotlight
to come again.

Return to My Poetry or...
Go back up to my main page