Mute spruce, peak unswaying, you stir
no concern as the sky drains of day and lifts
its cleared brow to Orion, the longest
river rising in threaded jewels
at his knee. Only a touch of blue
quiets forever green spirits within
your seeming barbs, but
they are as soft in hand as the frosted
lavender and as fragrant.
It's the littlest birds that are bravest; true
winter lovers, they stay
though songless. As the land
wanes, unshielded and free
wings reap and sow aimless
winds; they need not slow
to light upon the birch, twigs
in clearer sight for the loss of
teardrop leaves. Did they ever strain
to find their landings amid the glow
of life in its glory?
