The Empty Trees

The empty trees are merely 

patterns against the
blue, gray  morning sky.
 Silhouettes of black lace spread
 out over the watercolor horizon.
Shades of pale pink wash
 into yellow and crimson.

They reach to touch the sky. 

Gnarled, rough elephant skinned 

bark of gray and brown. 

The empty trees stand silent 

across the landscape. 

Arching, twisting, spreading. 

Sentinels of the natural world. 

They reach to touch the sky. 

Deep inside the massive trunk,
 sap moves through veins
to the sleeping buds above.
A resurrection of new life
awaits them, the christlike
 tree holds its arms to the sun.
They reach to touch the sky.

Spring holds a promise that the
empty trees haven't forgotten.
They wait silently in suspended
anticipation. To be patient is to
be a tree... what else is there?
Roots spreading beneath the soil,
they reach to touch the sky.

Abandoned bird houses sway on
breezes from distant places.
The wind carries rain to feed
new life, birds to fill the houses.
Skeletons of yesterdays leaves
hang lifeless on empty limbs.
They reach to touch the sky.

The memories of by gone
 summers linger deep within
your old soul. The soul of a
tree isn't something to be
questioned. Of course trees
have souls! Trees pray as
they reach to touch the sky.

And so it goes for the empty trees,
their ancient lives ever changing,
yet always staying the same.
Rooted to the land in which
they were born. Planted by hand
or by chance, or by fate,
they reach to touch the sky.


"The End"