Winter Poem

On Loving Winter, and Walking to Work at Dawn

This morning, the cold is piercing to the senses
like a swirl of sage smoke.
Pungent, but also purifying.
My heavy boots don't feel so-
as I walk quickly through the squeaking snow.
Past the Sycamore,
brown leaves hanging like tattered prayer flags.

At the river,
the sun rests in the crook
of a Birch, looking more delicious
than ever
and pouring its blissful juice
upon the Land.

Maybe in life it's better not to try and rid ourselves of what we don't want,
But embrace what we do -
the passion, the stillness, the peace
the orange-red light bathing the neighboorhood
that I ran out of the house for,
to make sure I did not miss it.