the dreaming trees

Trees do dream;
while deeply embedded in their winter sleep.
Heartbeat slow, sapblood thick.
Roots beneath the frozen ground
reach and meet, creating a secret,
intricate connection
so that every tree becomes as one, dreaming close.
Gnarled branches rustle, seeming almost to sigh
with pleasure
as within they dream of budding leaves,
and the nests their limbs will support.
They ache for the return of the
birds; their liquid trills
filling the glades with a welcome cacophony.
They dream in the chill dusk, of the time ahead,
when the harsh winds of winter will begin again to soften;
giving way to the caressing breezes of spring.
They dream of the fireflies, stitching their eldritch
messages among the leaves;
of the spiders weaving stories into their webs;
and of the cicadas' droning rasp on eternal summer afternoons.
They yearn for the sun's healing touch,
and the sacred kiss of rain.
Buried beneath the snow, they dream
of remembered warmth, and of nourishing light.
If you approach silently
with eyes half closed,
you may see their dreams as they softly flow
from bare crowns;
While filaments of twilight, strands of dawn,
entwine about their boles.
You may see their dreams escaping slowly;
thin gossamer tendrils,
fragile green vapors;
Warm longings, prayers, and wishes,
which never fully disappear,
but drift like smoke to merge with the darkened skies;
and the dreams of the slumbering moon far above.