Suddenly, the bodies of the trees
are bare again, their wondrous limbs
etching poems against the sky.
I stop and stare as if I’d never seen
them before, awestruck once more
by the realization that these towering
beings are as alive as I am,
cycling through the same seasons,
knowing the same ebb and flow
of darkness and light,
of activity and rest.
I reach out to touch the smooth
cool bark of a sycamore,
and although its consciousness
is far beyond my knowing,
I feel a connection and something
deep within me breathes, “Alive.
Yes, alive.”