WRITING: Using Poetics

There is, I think, a certain sadness that lurks beneath the greening of the earth. The ones that don’t return are greyly obvious and beg by that alone for notice they escaped by winter dullness for the pruning shears to sharply separate them from the world they no longer grasp in nourishing hope of living on. Solemnly, they are severed and removed from among their standing brothers to be laid upon a woodpile for a second chance at briefer life. As kindling, yes, to serve a final shining moment in purpose both as blaze of glory and their own symbolic funeral pyre.