The Trees of South Bristol

No one comes to see The trees of early spring-- No cars, no buses, No cameras, poised and ready. Quiet grays and browns Salute the day's early mist, As it rises in resonance With early Chinese painting. Is this a death time, When hoped-for green Is still a dream? What if this year There is no yield, No blossom, no unfolding, No gold of autumn. What, then, do we say To the trees of South Bristol? "Grow, for we demand it." Perhaps we need to travel The way of silent grace, And dare to embrace the splendor Of trees without leaves.