winter’s pall,
I tire of platitudes about
sleeping trees, their well-earned rest
and exquisite structure,
most keenly noticed
in their nakedness.
I tire of their stiffness and the
wind’s fierce moan
pummeling bare branches
and frozen bark,
of icy earth and water.
And so I search, intently,
diligently, persistently, as though
my life depended upon the outcome,
which it does…my inner life that
longs for beauty in the severity
and meaning in the waiting, hope
that this trying time will give way to
flowering and fruiting once again.
In the seeking is the finding,
subtle though the rewards may be...
a few remaining winterberries hanging from dejected stems,
fuzzy grey magnolia buds and
the-very-slowly-swelling, creamy
globules at the end of sassafras twigs,
enfolding next year’s leaves.
Beneath the woodland floor lie
tawny moth pupae and grubs and
the pale green points of skunk cabbage,
poking their heads above the surface,
testing the temperatures
undaunted by the chill,
Are these the vibrant colors I long for?
Those that wind their way into verse and prose, so easily
conjuring images that make me smile?
No.
But they are the colors of now, of what is now,
and in that I will rest. They are the
colors that protect and surround and
allow the birds of winter to
blend into their background
and become invisible against the tree trunks -
junco’s, white-throats, song sparrows, chickadees, titmice,
nuthatches, woodpeckers, Carolina wrens, mourning doves,
and the Cooper's and sharp-shinned hawks that hunt them,
drab colors all.
Beauty among the tans and greys,
beauty among the browns.
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