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The heavens shimmer 
as billowy linen-white gossamer clouds slip away, as soft blossoms open for the sun.

Mystical wings of Eden brush sunset colors; 
caress the rose petal; touch the lustrous cream bisque glossed onto an Irish sea;
the enchantment's cyrean, sterling wings
shine in an immaculate Artic gleam..
The sky becomes cool finely woven blue silk washed by the sun-lit rain.
The graceful Sunlight is blessing every and any deeply rooted vegetation:
 A tree whose gnarled limbs and fingers hold the fallen snow, shake it off in the Late Autumn winds. 
She offers inedible berries that change color, 
that attract the squirrel, the Robin. 
A Fish Crow does not feed her child these berries, last Summer her baby-
in their nest built into the tree- 
opened her beak for the laboriously hunted earth worm.
Fertility. The reap of the Harvest 
with its toasty glow is the essence
of Autumn-
the crunch of an acorn underfoot, 
scent of these baked acorns, 
and chestnuts; 
A smoky freeze, as you breathe in, resurrecting a fire in a wood stove.
The crackle of the colorful leaves
blown along a street, a sidewalk;
the sound as if they had sharp plastic blades
that were tossed, scattered. 
The fallen foliole are obliged by the winds 
to tap dance-
a sonance that quells the most anxious days, nights.

Let a Winter tree extend a crooked, gnarled chilly hand to you, walk together within her wilderness,
her home wherein which denuded trees are sharp stygian or onyx colors;
some undoubtedly possess dove hues.
The trees become lean shadows in silhouette to the sky...
Let a Winter tree tell her a story about the baring of her core. 
Her very own Autumn colored garb is taken, by the wind, her age more exposed than when the leaves are dying. 
The ice cold snow blankets too heavily 
at times, so she loses a limb. 
Or her body starts to bend where her roots and her Fertility meet, in the soil..
she is rooted in the land, the land cries out,
with its dusty dryness, and with the tree, 
she extends her arms to the sky with a plea for rain, light, like a Native American 
might do, might sing and dance: 
she dances, when the wind shakes her limbs; 
she sings with an early morning bird's twill, 
a bright chirp or two; the crinkle of her leaves,
her colors...
but perhaps with Winter's purity-
snowfall will mill the land, hush the Forest, 
the wind as it pushes the trees, 
tjey will nod, or whisper their intimacies 
as the chilled wind crinkles
their beetling leaves.

The sunlight sifts through the clouds 
 that seldom rain.. 
the elderly tree will stand plowed in barren soil; but she will  be baptized, 
illuminated by the sky's blessings
as she catches the sun as it slips 
across the sky. 
And if in the rain the tree 
lets a spider weave his nest 
within the tree's arms, the rain -drops 
will be little gems that cling to its web, 
to shine on the threaded silk-
sparkles to behold in the twilight. 
Perhaps she will wear a crown..
Perhaps..perhaps she will stand like a statue,
noble, honorable, watchfull. Among friends.
Perhaps..
Perhaps.
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