Naked trees, hued in scarlet ire, jealously gaze at sky blanketed in speckled glows, wondering if lost warmths are now those distant halos.
Siffles blow through arms of leafless stalks, crying for calming company of past talks.
Will an audacious one break free from stationed roots, recovering its garb by breaking physical laws about which it gives no hoots?
Blinks waggish echo sparkles’ smiles, amused at earthly beings out of comforted styles.
Has a preceptor left a message of hope in heaven’s stippling, decodable only by those as passioned and wondered as Rudyard Kipling?
Patient trees, whose reaches never tire, grow nobler through each seasoned state, learning when to dream, when to try, when to bend, and when to wait. : )