In My Yard,
They stand barren, starkly naked,
Silhouetted against the winter sky,
Their white spines moving,
In February gale winds,
Traces of icy snow,
Still clinging here and there.
I have watched them,
For going on seven years,
Planted with my own hands,
Where they proudly stand,
Looking so cold and alone.
Their intertwining branches,
Appearing to reach out,
To each other,
For mutual support.
A natural latticework of beauty.
I have measured my own seasons
By their natural progress of change,
Winter being the saddest one.
Yet an hour ago draped in snow
Still they looked so splendid.
They endure, rooted there,
Waiting for the warming,
Seasonal change,
The return of life renewing Spring,
Buds to blooms, to small green leaves
That dance and ripple in the wind,
As if showing off just for me.
A roost for passing song birds,
Shade from summer heat.
In Fall they display splashes of color
Branches and flowing leaves in motion,
A rustling vibrating, audible hum of green,
And later golden colors turning,
Tiny banners beating like sparkling jewels,
In the sun and blowing breezes.
Never tiring to look upon.
To all my human senses,
Always so very pleasing,
These my Quaking Aspen Trees.