This year, like each before it, the trees stood bare,
And shivered in the cold as the wind blew into their bones.
True, the same wind meets them equally as naked
But thicker, and closer to the sky.
The wounds of its bark stay the same size
Yet seem to shrink as it towers, resolute.
They groan in quiet celebration.
To january, another year without the axe!
They do not mourn its potential;
Should they be sliced within twelve months
May their roots stick deep
And their branches fly in next january's wind.