spring is pure potential. there's no br calculating how tall a tree will be, br how far its branches will stretch, how br each fork will unfold, how many br br healthy leaves we will see. but br by summer we can measure the result. br pure potential has become actual. br contours of the trunk well-defined, br br strength of the root system is visible. br through time the roots are intertwined br with other systems, and from then on br there's no dividing it from other trees. br br the forest is a single, inseparable web. br but autumn will split two families. br despite the intermingling of their sap br one will become a shrivelled skeleton br br of brittle branches, a stack of sticks. br for it, winter attacks in battalion. br overnight, all's white. ice chokes lungs. br sapless leaves are torn, one-by-one, or in br br bunches from bared branches. twisting br in the gravity of an indifferent wind br to breathless unconscious snow they fall. br deciduous flee frost, their proud showing br br hiding for a season beneath pitiless snow. br but for evergreens, winter is only a minor br vexation. they take no precautions at all. br the frozen gales of november hold no power. br br one white february we buried gordon bentley* br six feet deep. in soil undisturbed for decades, br if not centuries, his solid oak coffin rests. br ever silent (except when shock of wind pulses, br br rushes, crushes in waves) tall evergreen trees br guard two graves on a golden hill where pasts br began. in the beginning he hugged that ground. br at his end the same soil compasses him round.