I noticed that the trees
whose golden autumn garments (cloak or dress or petticoats?)
no longer drape their limbs
but droop in tired swathing
or immodestly drop (now naked, yet unashamed)
Are glad to bare their form;
Stand proud, though disrobed,
Their branches arms of surrendering, and stillness,
To offer honour to the sky, the wind, the cold:
A welcoming of seasonal reality.
Do trees anticipate the spring? Do they harbour hope?
Plan next year’s wardrobe?
Or do they, with their ‘yes’ to each day’s dawning,
Live in full and free acceptance,
And so embody simple presence, and offer purest worship?
Anna Bosatta 2013