Prayer Against Despair by Graham Murtaugh

I stop dead in my tracks
heading downhill on S. 19th.

There’s a tree that won’t let me pass.
A winter elm, I think, naked

to the January air. It stuns
the blue right out of me.

Its gentle tendrils weave
a lace shawl

that mirrors my nervous
system; the blood in us

moves so similar. I know
what it is to contort, to bend

towards far-off warmth. The light plays
along gleaming boughs

so intimate I want to turn
my gaze, but stare

immodest.
I hold out my hand & dare

not touch. Frisky
clouds look on, giggling.

There’s no cure
but what beauty comes

from barrenness.