"God" is in the Trees

A vibrant, healthy spruce is a divine thing
as it sways with the warm zephyrs of early May

in a sylvan dance of unaffected grace.
Its trunk may bend under the inexorable power
of a December nor'easter or twist and sheer

in the magnificent windstorms of March,
as Old Man Winter expresses his petulance
at the downside of that hoary cycle of banishment and return.

An everygreen's limbs may tear and crack,
but its trunk will remain unbroken in its flexibility.
The tree will fall only when its vitality is dissipated
by profane disease or perhaps by a host of writhing budworms,

greedy for the taste of sap.
Then it ceases to be a thing holy and natural
and instead becomes merely a thing.

It is exactly the same with The Divine in our minds.

So mote it be,
until irony of ironies,
Sol embraces his nearest and dearest children in a



Alexandra Storm

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