When I’m Waiting for Winter

I twist
in winds,
like a tree,
arthritic,
and reluctant
for anywhere
not where it is.

Happiest
in the silence
of dark roots,
fingers drinking
cold, endless soil.
Cemented with
wet friendly earth.

My words, leaves
bristling to fly
the few feet
it takes autumn
to shrivel their brittle
world
to dryness.

I wait
for winter,
when I stand
naked,
imagining
the green buds
of a new poem.