In Praise of Winter Trees*

A closed heart can't greet

a winter sky. Even a rain puddle

is filled by it, and a horse trough,

and the slow current of creeks.

Winter trees, sycamore and oak,

reach for the sky to offer praise –

stark, hard praise, born from all

those rooted years of bearing

the sky's weight. Some nights

an open heart is filled with vast

spaces between stars the mind

can't grasp. The thought of heaven

is not so much mammothed by

the sky's grandeur, but mystified

beyond our silly notions. Winter

trees aren't arrogant; they praise

no flags, no denominations,

they owe allegiance to the soil.

My sister, when she was younger,

awoke in winter to hold her arms

up to the sky, shiver in the wholeness

of it, let shadows of winter trees

dance sunlight across her face.

Oak, beech, sycamore, maple, and gum,

reenact creation, drop their seeds

from the sky, make their homes

in star dust, and reach back

toward heaven. Trees suffer

drought and freezing rain, accept

the annual tilt toward shorter days.

Some ancient hope, like winter light,

is allied with the gravity of stars.

*Excerpted from Late Winter by Bill Brown, published by Iris Press. Bill Brown is a part-time lecturer at Vanderbilt University. He has written four poetry collections, three chapbooks and a textbook. The recipient of many awards and fellowships, Brown lives in Robertson County, Tennessee.

I have always found beauty in the starkness of winter. Something about the winter light and proud trees with their entangled branches against a gray winter sky speaks to my heart. The pure white of a fallen snow with its shadows of violet and muted silver, flashes of diamonds in the rays of a winter sun. Asleep. At rest. Peaceful and waiting.

Hoping you're enjoying the beauty of Winter, wherever you may be...