In Days of Winter

. . . I sleep early, rise
before daylight, wait
with patient stupor
the coming gray light
. . . I move slowly,
surreptitiously — an
animal hungry to find 
success in the hunt.

In days of winter
. . . I return to books
to read over, something
of a seasonal ritual
that comforts, reminds
me where I have been. 
It’s too cloudy to know 
where I’m going.

In days of winter
. . . I face morning alone,
I fall asleep alone — feel
the humble fact of being
loved by so many who
are not with me — whose
love can only do so much
for me, and I for them.

Each cedar stands and falls, 
finally, always, alone. 
From the sky, we are a dull 
green swarm, a collective 
voice calling for peace, 
for justice — American ideals 
we believe — so often 
with invisible results.

But walk among us, sense 
scraggly arms bound in frigid 
air, rough bark emitting 
a strong odor we have grown 
used to — a singular fragrance
in dank air — each cedar 
stands and falls finally,
always, alone.