by Margaret Widdemer
When winter-time grows weary, I lift my eyes on high
And see the black trees standing, stripped clear against the sky;
They stand there very silent, with the cold flushed sky behind,
The little twigs flare beautiful and restful and kind;
Clear-cut and certain they rise, with summer past,
For all that trees can ever learn they know now, at last;
Slim and black and wonderful, with all unrest gone by,
The stripped tree-boughs comfort me, drawn clear against the sky.
Photo by Dan Simpson www.future26.com
Related Posts
Nature
Nature rarer uses yellow Than another hue; Saves she all of that for sunsets— Prodigal of blue, Spending scarlet like a woman, Yellow she affords Only scantly and selectly, Like a lover’s words. Photo by…
The Language of Flowers
Teach thee their language! sweet, I know no tongue. No mystic art those gentle things declare, I ne’er could trace the schoolman’s trick among Created things, so delicate and rare: Their language? Prythee! why they are…
Blue Winter
by Robert Francis Winter uses all the blues there are. One shade of blue for water, one for ice, Another blue for shadows over snow. The clear or cloudy sky uses blue twice — Both different…