February 02 2007

Text By Greg Fallis

There they stand in the first familiar caress of twilight, gathered like druids chanting prayers to older gods, accepting the persistence of winter but asking, with reverence, for the arrival of spring.

Trees are slow-spoken, living prayers...prayers whose pagan answers are measured by more ancient rhythms of time. Despite the cold clods of dark earth enveloping their roots, sap still moves in these trees. It moves sluggishly, perhaps, but with irrepressible potency. Buds will appear and blossom, shade-giving leaves will grow and sweet fruit will ripen on the branch.

For now they stand, unclad and exposed, fertile as Saxons, opening themselves to the stars, giving themselves to the moon, all part of the same prayer, the first prayer ever prayed, the only prayer that deserves its answer.