Leaden Skies

ENNUI, dull note droning all this season,
SPRIGs of hope withering before they green.
LATER days? Is this winter? Or a year of cooling, ash-cloud circulating planet?
SLUNK from me animal spirits, esprit, expectancy.
ARBOReal metaphor to ponder, the dropping of leaves followed by spring
MEDALLing in joy’s event. Or a tree, at whose root the axe is laid, for, say,
TRIBAL longhouse’s lodgepole, thus treasured, yet not standing, or–
WOOZY thought–tree engulfed in wildfire, among tens of thousands, gone.
LINGO might be found to name these story branches, but what word for the not knowing?
HOWDY to all the doubts, the unseen future, to the leaden skies that seem here to stay.
GRASP a slender thread–or sturdy anchor cable?–I am not my own.
THIRD of life left, perhaps. A third of a gift, followed by greater gifts.

Note: I borrowed from Mike and did three days at once.