by Annette Snyckers
In the cold of winter I stand bare,
my faults stick out like unpruned shoots,
hard and dry, my flaws revealed.
Angry winds have denuded me of green
and sap stands sluggish in my veins.
I long for warmer days,
for the swelling buds of spring
when I may hope
for yet another flowering,
when yet again the lavish cover
of leaf and blossom will conceal
my basic brittleness.