I like trees that are bare. . .
Not because life seems to be gone
Nor because death seems to be lurking there . . .
Each limb protruding in the sun.
But in their nakedness their is beauty . . .
Each bend, each curve, each crook can be seen
Each little twig its own personality . . .
In every direction the branches lean.
There is nothing hidden by leaves. . .
The little birds' nests stand out forlorn
Deserted for the warmth of the eaves . . .
The humble abodes now open to the storm.
Yes, I like trees when I can see . . .
The secrets they can no longer hide
The scars of battle they could not flee. . .
And now winter winds they bravely bide!