The young pine whispered to the
Old sugar maple,
Its words glazed with awe:
"How come
You bare such enchanting colors
In the days when the sun
Smiles for so shortly?
Why is it
That my own leaves cannot boast the brilliant hues
That your own hold?"
"Do not be fooled by this beauty, little one,
For beauty means pain," the maple replied,
Voice ancient and
As brittle as its bark.
"Surely such lovely a thing as beauty
Is not a cruel or unforgiving hand,"
The handsome pine remained unconvinced
And wistful.
The maple spoke firmly,
"The painter's brush stroke
Comes with a cost;
That I may have to lose all of my leaves
As the white jewels arrive to blanket the earth."
"But isn't it true
That we all have to let go
Of our leaves?
Isn't it better
To have them taken away
All at once,
Then to have them slowly disappear
One by one?"
"But you have never felt
The nakedness as I have,
The vulnerability,
Or the deep aching loneliness that comes."
The pine seemed to understand now, and
Quietly
Softly said
"You will not be naked or vulnerable
As the white jewels will quilt you
With their shining pelt.
You will not be alone
For as long as your roots grasp the soil
I will be right here with you
By your side."
YOU ARE READING
spellbound
Poetry" T h e r e i s n o t h i n g m o r e p o w e r f u l a n d n o t h i n g m o r e d a n g e r o u s l y b e a u t i f u l t h a n a f r e e mind . "
