Clasping the boughs
of the bend in this
street, corpsed catalpa
limbs weep. These
watchmen stand enrobed
in a shroud of fog, aligned
in memory of broadleaf days.
When phantom yellow lines
were more than a ghost
in the grey of this country
lane. The end of the asphalt
is faith, lost in morning mist,
where I watch with the trees
for the coming sun of spring.
When the paint will be gold,
and what was dead sings.