Waiting for Winter
All that remains is the crow’s nest
clinging to barren branches.
The skeletons of French lilacs
rest for the long journey
Leaden skies are paired with stillness.
We, too, hunker down as winter
trudges in on heavy, loud boots,
idling at this junction of rest
and potential rebirth.
The yard cleared of the maple’s
autumn suit; brittle leaves clatter
like playing cards over the pavement.
The potential of the days ahead:
snowbound, wind with sharpened teeth,
the futile spin of tires, tread
lodged in wet snow.
Present, too, this resolve to live
on nature’s terms – to unfold
within this powerful silence.
by Bruce Gunther
Editor’s Note: In this liminal winter week, the clear imagery of this poem feels particularly apt.