A red cabin in the woods
beneath the pine trees
sagging from the winter snow,
is all I need for solitude.

As concrete melts into dirt and grass
and skyscrapers become pine trees,
I fall into the snow and promise
myself to stay until spring.

As the snow continues to fall,
I am covered until I become
the snow and the earth and
the roots of spring’s growth.

What was a full mind
is replaced with snow,
ice, and water dispalcing
everything until there is nothing.

In the depths of winter,

when I stand as one of the white birch

when the ravens come to rest atop

silent pines and the fields calm

I finally know I am alive when I hear my heartbeat.

Stopping at the green gate and the snow covered driveway, the pine trees embrace the winter sky and the morning light, shadows reach across the space between tree trunks.

Too much Time has passed since the last visit and the space feels foreign. While I remember the name of each tree, I hope the ravens remember me as they circle nearly out of sight, their call still echoes through the forest, the only other voice heard above the winds’ song.

Packed snow crunches with each step. Brown pine needles blanket the white surface, untouched except the many deer tails weaving through the trees, reaching beyond what I can see.

The sun’s intensity warms tired bones and muscles. The wind directs eyes up as the treetops sway against the cloud-free winter blue.

Each breath tastes of nature. Each breath brings me back. Each breath brings me closer to a chance meeting with god.

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A simple breath and idle hands
as we watch the sun filter through
the silent forest – we are guests
here, just caretakers of the land.

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Storms rolled through last week.

Weak and old trees toppled to the ground or fell into a neighbor or
landed on the wire fencing with the orange flags.

Near the pole barn smaller trees were uprooted but the metal roof
still looks new, the green roof glistening when wet.

What little birch are mixed with the pine
still stand, their white and grey skin

shining through the green mass.
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We gaze from the wet earth
from the snow piles and appreciate
the warm sun and the wind through pine
masking distant city sounds.

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(1)

Summer months fell into the autumn.
Mist clung to pine before the sun rose.

Brown needles falling from the sky
slide down the barn’s green metal roof.

We walk past fallen trees, piles of brush,
two tree stumps to be removed, knee-high

patches of weeds and wild flowers, a
bat house, three thistle-filled socks,

a burnt circle in the dirt from last
years burning, and finally the green gate.

(2)

The open field stretches to the horizon
and beyond with our imagination as to

the wonders nature has planned as
the sun emerges above the treeline.

From the east, we hear them.
Closer, louder, they circle at

great heights, specs in the sky,
appearing to descend the closer

they come to the field, as we
move behind grasses.

One last circle and their
grand black bodies against

the autumn blue, pass over
our heads, a slow motion dream

with an empty mind, one wing flap
echoes through the open field

and soon the whoosh disappears
along with the raven, natures’ wonder.

Why do I spend each weekend
breaking sweet and back?

What does each peeled layer represent?

What am I looking for?

Across the water lapping at my feet
the land rises to the sky
and the cliffs.

I dream in color, I dream in green
I smell warm pine and feel my skin burn

as each layer dissipates and I melt
into the earth and am consumed by roots.