I love my trees; they listen so intent to all my thoughts.

Trees in Winter

Their naked forms stand starkly against the sky,

Almost like charcoal outlines.

Clusters of twigs, gnarled and twisted, extend like the hands of a very old man

Dark cracks lie in the bark, each woody crevice a scar marking the years

Violent gusts move the cracking, creaking branches

My trees are squeaking, groaning, screeching,

As the cold enters their freezing sap, a shattering gunshot sound,

The bark splits and my trees want to explode.