Tree Wisdom on a Sunday

I walk through the woods seeking wisdom and solace,
on a quest for the answers my heart yearns for.

Twenty-four hours ago, the sun beat down warmly on the earth,
a rapid infusion of bliss on a short day,
while a breeze teased the lingering leaves, the blades of grass.

Overnight, a heavy blanket of snow draped itself over everything.

The trees remain steadfast, holding this fresh, unexpected weight,
boughs dipped low.

Tired arms.

The wind whips into a frenzy, stubborn snow ascending
in a rush from the ground
in icy waves that leap and twirl in a strange ballet,
cloaking the airstreams until nothing else is visible.

White blindness.

Airborne shards pepper the windowpanes of the shelter I’ve left behind.
I hear the sharp shots at my back and I wonder if they’ll resist cracking.

The trees are groaning, their voices escaping, even as they bend and sway,
with their sticky white burden, the air like a plow, unrelenting.

I see a branch on the ground now and again.
Dead pieces that have fallen away. Weak parts released.
Even while the strong bodies continue their brave dance.

The wisdom of the trees.

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