As I was looking out my window at the trees which are still leafless, it seemed to me that they weren’t really silent, which gave rise to this prose poem.

Tall and straight the tree stands, arms outstretched, reaching into the heavens to God, its silent voice shouting praise to the Creator of all things, heard only by those who have ears to hear. Its only movements are those that are in response to the rhythm of the wind. No matter how life has bent and twisted it, it stretches toward heaven, fulfilling its purpose assigned by the Creator: refuge for the birds, shade from the heat, oxygen flowing from its leaves, pleasure for children and animals in their quest to get higher. In winter and spring, it shows that life comes from death, and even when its life has been cut short and it exists only as a stump, new life forces its way from its body through the soil into light. Death proceeds from life, for a seed falls into the ground and dies before it truly lives. Season after season, through death to life, the tree serves its Creator, drawing life from the water He provides, shouting out its silent praise.