Pattern

Some believe the slumber
Of trees is in December
When timber’s naked under sky
And squirrel keeps his chamber.

But I believe their fibres
Awake to life and labour
When turbulence comes roaring up
The land in loud October,

And plunders, strips, and sunders
And sends the leaves to wander
And undisguises prickly shapes
Beneath the golden splendour.

The form returns. In warmer,
Seductive days, disarming
Its firmer will, the wood grew soft
and put forth dreams to murmur.

Into earnest winter
With spirit alert it enters;
The hunter wing and the hound frost
Have quelled the green enchanter.

-C.S. Lewis

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