I admire the trees that wave in the breeze;
that somehow survive in zero degrees;
that bloom in the sun and sigh in the shade
and seem so serene as snowflakes cascade.
And whistling winds whip wonderful specks
that swirl all about, each one more complex,
and cover the trees as clouds snort and sneeze.
And sleeping willows try hard not to freeze.
You watch on in peace and hope it won’t cease:
this endless barrage of winter’s release.
For you it’d be pain, but trees don’t complain.
They just stay asleep until warm spring rains.
Maybe I admire my one true desire:
to be half as strong as these trees require.