Mother tree be in me.  Father tree stand with me.  Brother tree shelter me.  Sister tree dance with me.

The roddie bush flaunts the snow like an ermine wrap.  I walk through the towering trees in my neighborhood weeping at the vision of the ancient forest that was once here.  The few that are left stand forever forgiving.  Trees are not judges.  They are witnesses of love.

Unlike the pot-bellied crow that screeches a haughty threat that he’ll take on my dog if we make another move.

The tallest fir branches wave through with the fluttering snow fairies.  Thick arm branches beckon with blessing.

Ferns don’t even feel the snow, snuggled at the feet of the giants.  Yet their tender roots are entangled with the Divine tendrils of trees beneath the blanket of Gaia’s soul.