Winter on the Columbia

Trees reach out naked arms
every twig is fingertipped with buds.
Yes, they say, we have faith
that the sun will come again
the sun will come again.
And we'll do off our robes of white
and dress in green, like brides.
Green like the jade Columbia
now scattered with wintertime ducks,
she drinks the waterfall tears of mountains
who hide their heads in veils of sleet.
The faith of mountains requires no sun
but trees are tender.