The night is rimy and raw and
no one is
thinking of the trees.
Not of the branches or the boughs or
the roots, or the delicate
needles.
And as a boreal wind tears through the hills
they stand together
saving strength under
blue-black skies.
The stars reach out
with their white heat
to warm them
but as with hope and dreams and God
and other things we
sometimes believe in
the stars were
too far away to matter much.
And now, when Night grows coldest,
when clouds push up
over the great tips of rock
dawn comes slowly, thief-like,
convening
after a hard season,
to cry in empathy and to console
with prayers and tender embraces.
At first light the sky sifts out its finest snow,
like sugar.
And by early morning
there are white coats for every last
shuddering tree,
to warm them yes,
but also to show the both of us
how near
our own blessings
truly are.
Originally published at medium.com