The songbirds are gone
and so too are the leaves from my red tree;
the last to leave will be the ruby fruit
and then the trilogy will be complete.
Winter looks down from over the hill,
collecting her woodland memories
and dispersing cathedral smells;
heavy textures of umber bark
and patterns of a sacred past
that the ruby red still flows through our veins.
Woodland memories are not ending...
they are just beginning.
Poem and color photograph © copyright Anitra Redlefsen, 2003