Bare

The trees are bare. Leaves have fallen off long ago and what its left is stark branches waving in the wind. The ground is bare of color and covered in shrived brown grass. Trees and earth are waiting for the hope of spring. For lush greenness and gentle warm rains. Waiting for beauty.

But the beauty is already here. There is something simple and lovely about trees with nothing on them. Grass that blows in the wind and looks smashing against the sky.

The brown of winter is beautiful. Bare is beautiful.

We are beautiful when we are bare. I hide behind the mask. My life is fine I am fine. Do you not know that everything is just fine?

And I'm not being bare. Sometimes there is ugliness in hiding and in letting others think something that is not true. 
You cannot wear your heart on your sleeve, but sometimes its okay to be not okay. When I bare my thoughts I'm letting someone else carry the burden. And somehow in awfully strange way being bare is being beautiful.