The Pine

The brook babbles. Journeying off to its destination with little care for the world about it. White beards form over its banks like a thousand wise men coming to watch it's voyage. There, in the depths of winter, crystal formations cling from branches and bow as the trees stand in stone silence. Only the crackle of the glass that encases everything, speaks its mind. The pine alone is set apart. She this eve is dressed in white lacing, covering the green of her usual garment. Wearing her diamonds on every outstretched slender finger. The wind speaks in thin veiled suggestions to her. She whispers and moves in reply. Their's is a slow dance of seduction ignored in the broader scheme. The wind, were it capable, would strip her bare. However, unlike others so easily coaxed into disrobing, she is purity. She is a woman of class and reform. Aging for no one but herself, stresses for none but herself.... She is refinement and grace.