In the dead of winter
When trees are fast asleep
The sap is creeping slowly
From roots frozen in the deep

Branches bare, encrusted
Ice both a prison and an art
Beneath that frigid stillness
What dreams consume their hearts?

Do they dream of sunshine?
Warm rays, caressing light?
Of birds with trilling music?
Fresh clothing, green and bright?

Perhaps they dream of freedom
Of roots pulling out of dirt
Of crossing the horizon
Roaming, watchful and alert

Or are their dreams much darker?
Full of mist and damp and gloom?
Do they conjure ghosts of saplings
To bring careless humans doom?

Or their dreams may be too alien
Thoughts hidden deep like roots that curl
For though we share the same bright planet
We inhabit different worlds

Still I cannot stop returning
I would ask them if I could
What they dream in dead of winter
In this silent, ice-bound wood


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