all is still

the branches reach out
thin limbs clawing at the sky 

silently, silently

grasping the stars that swirl 

into an ever-changing abyss

never able to 

really find beauty in such a thin
frail grasp
constantly being broken

then the cold white fluff

twirls from the sky

and the lonely claws are finally comforted
by the gentle arrival of such
softness