Old trees in the winter are like wizards

clean shaven or white beards hanging,

you can see the 60s and 70s in them,

not far off at all, right there even,

if you look closely.  You could even see

other decades that you wish you lived in,

like the, 40s? I don’t know, I don’t look for

the 40s when I look, but


these trees are the ones, with that grainy gray

winter film on them: where the sticks come from

that crack under our feet when we walk together

through the woods towards the giant wind turbines

we’ve always wanted to stand at the base of,

just to see. Walking towards a brand new thing

like you and I, through the Scots pines, Silver maples,

Old things, trees


at home in yards: the ones creaky old rocking chairs

are made from, newly made even, I could make one

right now, lubed up and stained fresh,

but if I used that old thing out there, like a giant’s tibia

preserved from some other decade,

it would   creak,   crack,   cold and crisp with gray

outside like this portion of the world’s schedule

the sun just couldn’t buy its way into:


“Sorry Mr. Sun, sir.  The sky is booked. It’s not that

the rain will be using it, it’s just that you can’t.”

That kind of gray, more refreshing to wake up to

than orange juice, gray dancing in a line around

November through February and the trees—

branches dead enough to let me climb them

to their tip top, but snap anytime I try sitting

up there awhile and watch me fall, all the way


back onto the grass, back on the grass,

breathing in the smoke smell from a bon-fire

two houses down, burning old creaky things,

old creaky things burning.


by Andy McIntyre


Andy’s poetry and fiction have been published in Hard Freight, a Penn State literary journal, and two of my original plays were also there produced during my time there as a student.

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