Is my hope resilient
as forested hillsides
crystallized and suspended
in the breath of God?
Where’s the winged choirs,
whose songs wakened
my slumbering yawn in summer?
Amidst the snuffed out wick of daylight,
bound in winter’s icy shawl,
it’s insult to injury
for a soul bereft of the Nuthatch’s gentle chortle,
to be barked at by the raven or magpie’s caw.
Does the wandering Moose look sad,
because she must birth in the storm?
Do Porcupine tracks ever end,
and where does the freckled Fawn lie?
Today the last pear has fallen
from the limb,
and in the silence,
I mourn,
waiting for this beautiful death,
to die,
and be reborn.