Everyday, lately, I watch the winter trees. Some days they are dancing in the wind, some days they stand still as statues. Often they are mobbed with chattering black birds.
The dark, bare branches look like ink against the gray sky, so I drew them. I let the ink drip down the crinkled paper, as I held it upside down. When I turned it right side up, I found a tree:
Winter Tree, ink
Today, the trees were rain-soaked and slowly moving, here and there. I wrote down a little poem while I sipped my coffee:
The trees stand
like frozen sentinels
drenched by a cold winter rain.
They watch me with
arms spread high and wide
daring me to hear them
to feel the bare morning
to come out of my house
and reach to the sky.
Wet to the bone
they tease me
as I sit in my warm chair
wrapped and snug.
With waving wet arms
they tell me to come out and see
come out and dance
and feel the rain.
