Naked white birch seem to shiver
without the dress of flitting leaves,
They are tender, anticipating the
Snow that has yet to fall.
They are ghostly, almost animated,
Fleeing the brute force that is
A winter nor’easter in New England.
I tie my destiny to the
Courage of standing pines,
The elders in the world of trees,
Which sag beneath the weight of snow,
Which point upward to milky moon
no matter what their burden
dancing with north winds.
We can choose to clutch everything
Around us that makes up a good life –
Or we can point skyward like the
Pines, where our hearts have always ached
To travel, and face this moment
With unparalleled bravery.
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