Not a thing lies hidden
behind the bare branch –
the days before emergent buds.
Sycamores silver and white
golden autumn cast to the ground.

White limbs reaching to the sky, seeking,
silver fingers thrusting out, pleading,
bare tips looking on heaven, expecting.

Snow,
like manna,
catching in the bends,
brushing branches
clinging to loosened bark and hardened knots.

Whirling, lacing cedar trees.
Tabled outcroppings spreading for feasting.
God steps back and says “It is good. It is pure.”