Cold and dark,
trees stand exposed.
Naked.
Amber glory
of fall adornments
long gone.
Raked and gathered —
cast out into the road.
They wait.
No frill or cover.
No sign of such.
Snow blankets branches,
no substitute for
their natural frills.
They wait.
The thaw comes and
still they stand bare
in anticipation of
what’s to come.
Ruddy buds like
magic form,
reminding us
of their truth.
New life
always shows up —
eventually.
Burgeoning buds give way
to what we’ve
waited for all winter.
The leaves always come
if we simply wait
long enough.
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