Winter Trees

Winter Trees

The Blood Dogwood outside the living room window, all leaf-less and dormant, it is sitting in the throws of winters grasp. There will be months in its life, now that the seasons have changed, before the pedestrians will see another bud.

It is said that the wood from the Blood Dogwood was the same wood used in the Crucifixion, such a pretty tree when in bloom, myth or fact; could it be the beauty of such blood so tragically lost that creates such beauty?

Today the branches and limbs, they are empty of leaves, in their place the teardrops of heaven, hanging clear, translucent life by the drop. The birds, Finches, Blue Jay’s, Robin’s, they sit puffed up thick against the wind, idle thought of flight on a cold winter’s day.

So often, on a winter’s day so cold, cutting wind biting at my neck, fingers stiff and frigid, I think of happier times, down the 101 to the lagoon’s. How we stood in awe at natures presence, the Elk, the Sequoias so tall and stately.

The other world, three hundred feet above the Sequoia’s massive trunk, little lizards, insects wandering around above our heads. No sounds from above, just the beauty of the forest noisy silence.

For hours, we would sit in silent narrative thought, these trees so old and stately, this land, it’s dense forest to the ragged coast, trees as old as the Son of God, as old as Columbus, such rugged beauty so peacefully stands.

The first memory of our being here, lost like the first needle fallen, yet strangely never forgotten; every visit to the upwardly stretching Giants creates a new memory. So easy, the getting lost, the inspiration, the spirituality; the warming of two souls together melding into one yours and mine.

This known lost world, such colors abound, greens dark and light, golden browns and tans from thick bark to natures plush carpet. A cathedral like no other, Roman or Greek, no land could be so free of man’s faulty religion’s, no walls or carved doors locked, safe sanctuary abounds, in the noble antiquity of the Deity.

No man of any age in history, ever built an oasis of such beauty on any land, such life supported here, such tranquility afforded. Deep blue Spinel sky, bathed in starlight calms the night, no impious sounds filling the air, a lover’s embrace in the tranquil silence. Standing beneath the Sequoias earthly embrace, gazing upward motion of neck, mind and heart; the treetops part, a vision seen, a coverlet of stars stately lay.

Soon in reticent refrain, two souls tied in eternal embrace, watch as the new days early light breaks through the treetops. Below, a crystal stream of air hangs across the ground, Elk grazing in the tall meadow grass, the lateness of the Owls hoot, the fluttering of air beneath the wings of Ring-necked Pheasant, Ruffed Grouse or a Red-tail Hawk.

A lonesome roadway beckons the drive, the leaving, the rumblings in the stomach speaks of hunger, the rumblings in the soul speaks of the foreboding aftermath of leaving the sheltering of the Giant Redwood sentinels of nature.

Sitting indoors beside my window, the baron Dogwood outside, branches frozen in winter’s state, a lone Chestnut Chickadee perched, brown and gray under his blackened head, feathers tufted, fluttering with the chill of the east wind that flows in from the gorge.

Sitting before the fire, a winter state of mind, awaiting the warmth, the renewing of life, the surrendering of winter to springs floral birth. Pondering these humble walls, remembering the cathedral of the Giants, the encompassing beauty there; and you.

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