A Rest From Giving

I love to see trees in the winter when I can see their bones.

And hear them crackle in the breeze like the laughter of crones.

Arms reaching, fingers stretching, devoid of their robes.

Smooth gray skin laid bare to the wind, and the glittering snow.

Raw and brilliant in the starkness. Dusty silver, gnarled bark, roots wound into stones.

Thin sunlight kisses ashen limbs, no longer filtered by verdant clothes.

Gaping holes no longer hidden, open for shelter, but cold.

That is the extent of her help to others in this season.

Her time is brief to be free of her chores.

Cold days delay growth, end leaf making, halt seed making, not even roots need to be born.

In winter trees take a rest from giving, and focus only on their own.