Rebellion

An oak waves in the blizzard,
an offensive ink spot on a canvass of stark.
Left and right it sways,
branches threaten to split their bark.

The contrast of color affronts the Wind;
it begins to quicken its pace.
It throws itself at the tree in redundance,
a crack, a crash; it kisses the earth's pale face.

The flakes continue falling,
rythmatically stealing the blot from sight.
You'd have never known the oak'd been there,
snow keeps piling through the night.