Bare Ruin'd Choirs

. . . yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs where late the sweet birds sang.

from Shakespeare's Sonnet 73

Shakespeare's comparing himself, as an aged man, to a winter-bare tree. It's a pleasant metaphor but a little unkind, in my opinion, to the trees. Personally, when I look at trees in winter, I'm aware of the latent strength, just waiting to burst forth in buds and leaves.

Even the old black willow that leans across the road in front of the barn, in spite of its requiring support to remain upright, is just marshaling its reserves to add another foot of crooked growth this year.

The three river birches below our house, finger-diameter whips when I planted them (fortuitously below our septic tank) over thirty years ago, are beginning to show a reddish tinge -- and if you put your hands to their trunks, you can sense the cool, damp sap within, ready to rise and start the riot of Spring.