Solitude Tree

Bare, and dry as bone,
branching armature
in lamplight white
and shadow black,
one sleeping tree twists in its socket
in the too green grass as I pass,
slowly gestures a plastic space,
a hand turning an imaginary world.

I sat down to wool-gather, perhaps to draw, or paint, and out pops another worthless poem. What if this is all I can do now? and yes, I really like the word armature.