Dead

It is broken, the top half lies on the ground
The dead dry branches reach sky ward
Clinging to death, pointing out the brown
Looking skeletal in the cold wind and yet
If your eye looks you can see the tender buds
Hidden along its arm, a promise of life
Tucked away, produced on one frail limb
Possibility bursting forth against the cold sky
It will come, it will begin again in the full time