Morning brrought more flakes and wind swirl, but by late afternoon, I venture out. Blue sky pulls me from gray chores as dusk approaches.
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My path is even less traveled than usual, and I tromp less vigorously than on past treks. I know a misstep could end poorly, and this season of “bad back” days has taught me caution, if not fear.
I watch my steps, head down, but cannot thus take in the glorious view, and so I stop again and again, turning round, not wanting to miss a sight, a glimpse of winged color, a stem of red berries splashed against dark bark.
that tall straight trees,
perfect, pointing skyward,
have already shed their snowy coats.
The late afternoon breeze
has scattered swirls of whiteness
the bent ones,
trees bowed low,
leaning hard against tall neighbors,
or splayed across the underbrush like fallen warriors in a battle I cannot imagine,
these trees piled high with snow,
piled high with grace,
speak to me.
On the fallen, the leaning, the faltering.
These trees, being horizontal, have more space for grace.
Grace piles up and lingers long.
Once, perhaps they too stood tall and straight, until disaster visited:
A twisting wind lingered…
a reckless dirt mover backed too far…
a neighbor tree, storm thrown, grabbed wildly on its way down.
until they cracked or crashed.
Uprooted and displaced, they now receive grace piled high.
discarded branch pile,
-creates distinct beauty,
and provides a"place"
for smallest forest creatures
seeking storm refuge.