Flat white Great Lakes sky,
Distant frozen fog,
Yet warm enough
for hammers
to sound on rooftops.
Men work in hooded sweatshirts,
jeans, thin tennis shoes
upon brick bungalows
that kept us warm
in the bleak months.
But the trees
stand haggard,
bare-limbed and stoic.
Maple and oak and Kentucky buckeyes -
indistinguishable to my eyes.
All stand equally stripped,
naked, vulnerable
in the diminishing chill.
Oh, how they stretch
their feathery twig tips
towards the hiding sun!
How can I not cheer
for their survival?
No one calls Chicago trees heroes,
but they are.
Even we hearty people,
blood winter-thickened,
cozy up inside our walled homes.
Our windows may rattle
beside the El tracks,
but still, we are warm.
Chicago’s winter trees
brave ice storms,
branches snapped
by unflinching winds,
endure the bitter bite
of Below Zero.
Water-stained, whorled, gnarled
gray on brown bark -
they stand and endure.
In 40 degree air,
my hands gloveless,
the skin on my fingers redden,
knuckles chafed and aggravated.
Nowhere near Below Zero.
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