Sapling

The wind grows crisp,
And your blood-tipped limbs
Stretch for the sun
Rebelling against their descent.
Soon the grey skies will come
Bringing winter slumber
As the sun becomes a distant friend.

Your blanket will melt
Freeing you from its icy cage,
And the sun will return
To a taller, wiser you.
Your fingers will heal
Multiplying to their fullest luster,
And you will be born anew.

You may not be a strong oak
That has great bark but no bite,
Or an ancient redwood
That drinks in the briny air,
Or the lazy magnolia tree
That grows wide instead of sky high,
But your first winter will not be your demise.