I watched them through the early winter cold,
playfully young, straight, proud, and
stretching through the snow and clouds to
touch the stars and shine their joy of
tender life with all those points of light
that smiled down on them each frigid night.
I watched as, of a sudden, arctic winds
snarled across their fragile youth,
weighting them down and down and
down with ghost-white snow, until so stooped and
aged beyond their tender years, they
fingered only dark, ice-crusted earth instead of lustrous stars.
I watch them now, still sadly bent,
their summer dance of green a meager,
muted, hobbled waltz.
I grieved for them in winter; and from my own
misshapen life, I grieve with them still now.Â But
sometimes, of a soft and windless summer night,
I think I hear them whisper, to each other and to me,
telling of a someday tender Wind that promises to
straighten all our bentness, and bring again the
stars within our reach.