The amaltas* grove is wintering 
Bare branches raised in quiet prayer
The trees in meditation
Their copse a little haven
From the chill that’s spreading everywhere
They sit together in the grove
Yet solitude wraps each one
In arms soothing, slumbersome
And there resting they will remain
Until the earth wakens them again

The fallen leaves have long since ceased
To sit lightly on the ground
They have sunk into their beds
Laid down their tawny-russet heads
Hidden away, they will not be found
The trees remain skeletal, upright
Waiting for spring to arrive
But until then they will not sing
Stirring songs of vital things
For now the grove is wintering

Something deep inside of me
Keens for this state of rest
To step out of life’s lusty choir
For a while to quietly retire
From her spring-loaded behest
I want to hide, to lie low
Take each hour nice and slow
Hibernate in my little den
Until I can smile at life again
Like the grove I will be wintering.
Image: Donna Ashworth
* Amaltas: the Indian Laburnum/ Golden Shower tree

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