Winter has revealed those twisted and gnarled branches of old trees that are reaching, reaching, reaching, as high into the heavens as their limbs will allow them. Those battered trees give me hope, for they have weathered storms, heard winds howl, felt the bite of ice on their skin, and yet, they are still reaching up.
These old giants have survived long droughts which made them reach deep, deep, deep down into this earth, in the end the lack probably saved them when those raging storms came around.
Shallow roots will never do when thunderheads roll and winds beat and batter against you.
These old dryads, year after year slip in and out of light filmy petticoats, soft deep vermillion green dresses, and brilliant ruby and burning gold gowns, until finally without complaint they shed them all and allow the bitter cold to display their faults for the world to see.
Not a one of them is straight and perfect all over, each has twisting, bent and broken branches.
They like I are crooked, even as they reach up.