An Evergreen's fingers, with tiny droplets of sunlight against the first blue sky after the blizzard. A blizzard that hid both the sky and trees in a wall of white. A blizzard that for two days turned the soft laced hush of winter's snow into howling winds that seemed to move the house itself. Winds and snow that left the other limbs bowed and weighted with snow. Not these. Somehow they shook off the fury of the blizzard. In standing tall, standing true, not bending, they shed the weight.
A rhythm to every season. The seeds of hope borne within the storm itself. They will not scream notice me nor will they shout their message. Simple. innocent. Gentle. There. Sometimes they only whisper once and are gone. The physical image lasted only a minute or so. The message, if grasped, will forever be touched by the sun.
