Home In The Oaks

My little house in Billerica was surrounded by oaks on the edge of the lake.  I marveled every year at their naked beauty against the darkening winter sky.  The beauty of that nakedness was a foreign notion to me, contradicting my experiences of terror in feeling vulnerable and exposed.  

Outside my window I see silhouettes of the great red oak trees.
Winter’s breath has stolen their cloaks.  
Winter’s breath will wheedle and coax
Till it finds its home in the oaks.

Outside my window I see bare branches laughing with me.
Winter’s tale confided its joke.
Winter’s secret seamstress awoke
Then she found her home in the oaks.

She weaves a dancer’s grace rising from the earth.
Embroidered wild lace, she fills the sky’s wide skirt.
Nothing here will be hidden.  All disguises forbidden.
Til the curtains of night fall again.

Inside Life’s window I see wide arms with tall dignity.
Life’s stage reveals and provokes.  Life paints in bold naked strokes.
Life dances home in the oaks.

She weaves a dancer’s grace rising from the earth.
Embroidered wild lace, she fills the sky’s wide skirt.
Nothing here will be hidden.  All disguises forbidden.
Til the curtains of night fall again.