What happened to those dying trees
I spotted here last Christmas eve;
that stood abandoned and alone,
two lonely ghosts bereft of leaves?
Is that them there beneath the snow
That’s pillowed high while they lie low;
Two arctic beds on which to rest
While I admire winter’s show?
When comes the spring, I wonder if
They’ll lie as cold, as hard, as stiff;
Or if they’ll soften to the earth
In teeming life. I wonder if
Their final song won’t be a dearth
Of usefulness, but one of worth:
For out of death must come rebirth;
For out of death must come rebirth.
Yvette Roelofse 2008
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