This Pared Acreage Poem by delilah contrapunctal.... yes, that's how I intended to spell it.........

reshaped each diluvian season....
is a scrumbled range of tufts and bristles...torn....
twisted branches, washed downstream,
have raised their arms in acquiescent protest....
stumps stand as cenotaphs
to those of black, gold and gray...
a mistakenly wintering migrant
would have fallen there, dislocated....but was carried further...that stone a reminder....
I, in ludic tribute..begin a tentative.dance.....
.whispering, at first...then singing aloud...
.I was spared....
and find myself grateful....
.this pulse contains me...
.this terrible glory
is my home....
.these spirits
my comfort, my companions....
.I raise my arms, my voice......
...I rejoice...I simper...
.I am small....
water... wind..
.these wondrous curmudgeons.....
come...
tickle me....fondle me....
more...and again....
I am yours..........
as is this halting paean....