It is Spring below.
Winter still at 8000 feet.
Is this the last of it?
The last of cold and chill?
The last of snow upon the hills,
sprinkled through the air,
adorning rocks and trees
in crystal mantle, regal white?
Winter, Winter, where?
To where will you depart?
Stand tall these trees upon the hills,
for centuries stand,
’gainst winds so strong and cold
all other creatures hide
down deep within a hole.
Proud and patient, stand they do
’til finally thaws do come,
and sweet sweet dew does drip
unto their roots below.
For thirst they have,
as other creatures do
that languish nearer shores
of streams and lakes and ponds.
Oh trees upon the hill,
so humbly silent and so still,
what will become of thee
when snows they come no more?
When winds don't die,
but heat, it builds,
and sucks the moisture from your boughs?
Until so brittle they become
strong winds do break and tear?
And without arms
you’ll linger on?
Until, ... until, ... what?
A flash of lightening
ignites a conflagration
that scorches you to nothing?
A forgotten blackened spot
upon a barren hill?
And why, why will the Winter end?
Because we wanted warmth?
And speed? And coolness in the heat?
And because the answer
seemed so cheap?
How cheap does it seem now,
if tally all the costs
to creatures near and far
who will with us be no more?
Creatures gods had given,
in hopes of teaching us
how we might live
in ever blooming wisdom,
how both to share and enjoy
all bounties we misthink we’ve earned,
even with our strong and silent friends,
tall neighbors, high within the hills.
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Friday, April 22nd, 2016
Coleville
CA
USA
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