An Unwanted Sequel

The dead birch in my backyard is still
there. Last winter,
I wrote a poem about that tree,
but it was a flop,
so instead of using its pale bark
as some sort of metaphor
for my fear of growing old,
I'll admit its naked branches
remind me of tentacles
from a 1950s monster
that at least had the style to stay
off camera,
and the promise of fire wood
might be our only hope,
while we wait for the credits to roll.