Hibernation
The puff of my exhale
draws me back into the quiver,
where I try not to compete
with the pointed edge
of surrounding stillness.
Feeling the need to beg
a pardon for the sheer offense
of my brazen steps.
The furtive whisperings of trees
no longer include me.
I’ve turned outsider
amongst a familiar landscape,
decomposed into foreign.
Squirrels playful banter
now serious as they chitter over rations,
and the bright blitz of my river’s song
Slows to a lazy trickle
in dire need of a long nap.
Slate blue shadows
of exposed mountains slough off
curves waiting to be wrapped
In the frosted blanket
of winter’s promises
for rest, while all I can think of
Is bundling up
in layers upon layers
of flannel, and filling
all my cavernous spaces
with warm tea and honey.
Aching for a chair to rock
some of nature’s solitude in, to restore
the soul of my own log cabin.
Where a single plume of smoke
still rises, in memory of those years
less silent, yet never more alive.
A pause in the lifeline, a felt pulse
of inaction, an interlude with purpose,
an outline to be rewritten.
