The Unread Epoch of Trees

The crisp of the white 
Chills to the ivory bone
You’d be lucky to get a glimpse
Just one, of the sun saying hello

The deep lines that 
Scar the horizon 
Bleed white as they rip
At the seams of the white sky

Back and forth with the
Lashes of the invisible whip
Or not at all
Still, they don’t fade. 

Their limbs may teeter
In place of chattering teeth 
And rings may grow
But never seen but once

They do not perish 
Nor fade away
Silent soldiers with 
Cream hats