Moody reclusive winter's night,
Wind hushed, immersing a lofty aged forest,
Slender graceful skeletons of naked elms,
Weaving their tapering black arms into a
Network canopy extending high overhead,
Beckoned to me, a mere boy, to join them
In their ancient inherited unvoiced dance
Of the frozen, but not dead.
The north wind whispered long stanzas unrehearsed,
Calling the steps their roots should
Pace out in elegant primitive harmony,
In ponderous rhythmic gaits of silent joy,
The unity of their rooted movements taken for granted,
Hidden beneath the soil,
Hidden from the rest of the world.
But there they quavered,
Steadfast in moonless darkness as thick clouds mounted overhead,
Twisting, stretching, gently groaning in the swirling frigid winter wind
Just outside my frosted leaded glass window, the one just over my bed,
Where I lay tucked away in my cavernous bedchamber,
Yet partaking of the mystery, joining in their dance
From remote sweetly aching recesses of my heart.