White of ash is the light bark of the trees that are waiting
For snow
(Ash color on the charred sky of winter)
With a stillness so absolute
That they, who are strong, seem frail.
They do not shiver.
They are attentive and mild, even,
Not listening, waiting only,
Ready and bare.
The snow when it falls will not be harsh with them I know
Who have driven this way every day slowly
Because of them, because I thought
That if by looking at them from afar I cold understand
How they carry their heavy branches,
I could temper my hope,
If the hard weather lasts.
I think it was not the cruelty of the season
Made them stand like this without stirring.
For they answered with anger the ruinous wind
That fell on them early this month under the humped moon
Stripping their leaves.
They are not now submissive.
It's open they are, and passive.
The way they wait is like the way they wear their green
In the sweet, warm air of summer,
All that abundance not alien to them.
They did not swagger then for their riches,
And in winter they are not ashamed of being naked.
I don't think their suppleness comes from battling hail.
Anyone can rage splendidly on a bitten field.
It's carrying leaves and standing stripped of them,
Knowing the fibre inside and always the cellular streaming of water
And being sure of the hardness in the heartwood-these matter.
These keep them from being derelict or weather-broken as they wait
For snow
That spreads their branches wider
And, masking them,
Makes them witnesses who gravely acknowledge
What they already unresistingly are.