The woods in winter is a tired old woman,
Bleary eyed and ready for sleep.
No glasses, no make-up,
her teeth on the night stand.
She is angles and bones, a maze of wrinkles.
She bears not a spot of blush,
nor eye shadow, nor lipstick.
Her thinning hair sports no ribbon.
She wears no flowery gown,
no ruffle at her throat.
Still, there is stark loveliness,
Bleak beauty in the simple lines.
It is what it is,
the unadorned truth.
And then I spy her ruby embellishments,
I gasp in wonder at exquisite splendor,
And I imagine she winks at me.