In late fall the tree embarks
on the path to winter’s slumber —
as the dimming days slip short and dark —
of leafy weight she’s unencumbered.

There in the grooves of her linden bark
the worker ants prepare for the frost
that spreads across her lichen’s mark.
One pulls leaves over, a blanket soft

to keep them warm, a leafy tent.
It shields them from harsh winter’s maw,
which bites with brittle frozen vent
and breathes through branches bare and raw.

In the underground, her roots hold fast
to living soil that’s black as night.
They mirror icy wisp-clouds that grasp
the frosted skies’ pale starry light.

At last she slips into a dream
of bursting buds and birdsonged air
which softly waft in dewdrop streams
in answer to her winter’s prayer.