I confess. In summer I give them
little more than a passing glance,
maybe a little smile or a touch
now and then. But winter has come,
and they call me, the skins of these trees.
Now I stare in awe at their colors,
at the textures and layers and designs,
each unique, each similar to the others
in its family. I could learn all their names.
But now I want nothing more than to see,
to get lost in the wonder, to find myself
moist-eyed as I drink in this song.