The black oaks are deciduous dissenters
They do not lose their leaves in autumn
But hold them tight, through the months
Of ice and snow
As if they were some hedge against the windy cold
The dead leaves turn the color of worn buckskin
And somehow hang on.
But now the old leaves
The last vestage of winter
And the bare branches are
As open hands, reaching to heaven
To recieve warmth and light
To recieve the new season
To recieve new life.