The skeletons of the trees

are not the dead things they used to be

to me. 

I grow older,

and the winter folds her

hope into the cold

with gentle fingers.

The moonlight lingers,

the starlight sings her

melodies to seasons

while the trees, donned

in mere bark, freeze.

The empty, graying hands

rise and reach and 

stay that understand

their simple sod.

They wait and laud

the fruit that only comes from God.