I cannot see the nearly black trunk and branches
of the trees yet. I know they are there in my front
yard, on the hillsides. Know the winter solstice
is over. Know the trees have heard the whisper
of winter entering time and know the whisper
of its departure the heartwood of each tree
has memorized. I cast my restlessness to them
like prayers in a sanctuary where miracles occur.
I have no doubt they will be answered just not
immediately. We both know the nature of prayers,
how long it takes for them to penetrate, how long
it takes for the first leaves of spring to show.
-Byron Hoot
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