Sonnet at 32 Degrees

The poet trees stand quiet
In a field of deep-drifted snow,
Wind-crusted, past-its-welcome.
Beneath, their roots connect,

For stands of aspens, they say,
Are clones that propogate
in shallow, peaty soil, soul-
Mates for life. They turn

The same golden hue, this pair,
On the same autumn day,
And share their silences
To the highest, finest limbs

Topped in buds yet unswelled,
A-sway in the cold wind.

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About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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3 Responses to Sonnet at 32 Degrees

  1. Whimsy Mimsy says:

    I love how you weave information that I don’t know – the science behind the aspens for example – into something just beautiful.

  2. Ray, love this. Sometime, you will have to tell me about these “poet trees.” I just love the word play there.

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