If this is what becomes of winter

in the New England woods,

 

raindrops rippling over downed leaves

surrendered in unrealized anticipation of snow,

 

silky moss springing up between boulders

a fierce frost once heaved apart,

 

and mushrooms flaming gold

against the green-grey of sodden wood,

 

then I will caress the land’s bones, bare, with a lover’s gaze.

 

Inhale in ecstasy the low-lying mist.

 

Shake brilliant droplets from the beech buds

as I jostle the forest in passing,

Like old friends brushing shoulders

on a long walk in the late evening light.

 

And cast tears in joy as well as sadness,

because there is beauty even in this changing season.