Winter is for rest, for things to go slow
To sleep under a deep blanket of snow.
Winter drags on with ominous inactivity;
Maybe that is the natural state and not the other thing:
The exhaustion of productivity
The anxiety of generativity in spring.
To bud, to continuously bloom,
To cast color upon a half dark world shadowed in gloom.
The old regal oaks stand bare, unadorned
Terminal branches veined against the gray sky.
Early morning I feel most alive:
Half awake, until the sharp burn of inhalation.
The simple act of breathing a privation.
My bed was a warm hearth
But here outside--- vulnerable, forlorn,
A gauzy sentimental notion stumbles forth:
To push up through the frozen ground,
To penetrate the slumbering crust---
Though the stem be reedy and unsound,
Though the flower be plain and hushed---
To unfold our arms to the world like fresh petals
Before we're all crushed by a multitude of oblivious devils