Winter Trees

When I was green and free of life’s cares
I wondered aloud about the winter trees,
Thinking them, in that season, least fair.

For springtime trees explode with gleaming leaves,
Boughs bursting with bright blossoms sweet,
And summer branches don deep emerald sleeves

To soften sunlight, a respite from the heat,
And autumn leaves are gold, a fiery crown
That’s tossed, turning to coals beneath our feet,

But winter trees are barren, pallid brown,
Twisted, gnarled, offering no protection
From warring winds that brutally beat us down.

Yet hearing this, my grandmother gave correction,
For she considered winter trees displayed
A different beauty, not one of perfection,

But empty honesty, branches splayed,
The details of their faults and forms revealed.
Hearing her describe the trees this way,

How she noticed their bark, once concealed,
And saw their intricate patterns and woven shapes,
I started to see their make, not weak but seasoned.

Vulnerable, I see their knots and scrapes,
And now no longer think their value less.
I look to them knowingly as I traipse,

For if the winter trees stand bare and true
Though weathered, God with me, I can too.