I crave winter's silence and love its stark beauty.
This is what I want to tell you: Winter
is just the momentary pause between
inhale and exhale, as necessary
as breath. That earth needs her fallow
months the way you must dream each night
or risk a kind of fecund madness. Too much
light will burn through the wick of a tree's life.
The fall is no death, nor does cold still
the heartwood's sap. I know you don't
believe me. This morning, ice traced
the veins of a fallen leaf. I call it beautiful.
Your hands stiffen with anticipation.