The night is rimy and raw.
No one is thinking of the trees.
Not of their branches or boughs or
Roots, or their delicate
Needles.
And as a boreal wind tears through the hills,
They stand together,
Saving their strength under
Blue-black skies.
The stars reach out
With their white heat
To warm them,
But as with hope and dreams and God
And other things we
Only sometimes …
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