1.
I thought the snow might
think of me
as an intruder
as I broke
it’s smooth
and slightly shelled
surface with my feet.
But it didn’t. And
told me as much
as I continued
on and she met
me with a covering
of drifts and still
and whiteness.
2.
I lie here amidst the snow
and under this great Burr Oak
who stretches over and above me
with branches and bark chaotic
in their stillness and peace.
Have I eye
or patience to see
the next move of ingenuity
bursting forth from
the deeps of trunk and root?
3.
What has garnered me
this privilege? to sit and
watch and see the
waving fortress of iced
Silver Maples dancing
and swaying to the
motions of some unseen
conductor encouraging
a rhythmic and melodic
response. As a bird –
a chickadee I believe –
lights this arm, perhaps
it is the trees that
are conducting and I
am in the orchestra
writing of the iced baton’s
elegance and grace.
4.
I often pretend
or am persuaded
by the common sentiment
that dancing trees
and lighting chickadees
are pleasant garnishes to life.
That fields of frozen snow
and blowing chills are
somehow pawns of
utility or possession.
The thickness of hubris
that insulates and isolates
from beholding
this dancing tree
and the lighting of chickadees
who has just flown away.
The dull fatness of
pride in which I cannot
see the centrality of given
beauty that I cannot hold.
How soon have I forgotten
the language of lapping shores, the
liturgy of wilderness?