god never died;
was never alive.
except in human hearts
where the embers glow
and crackle upon
gentle pressure
to warm a biting
winter morning
where the lake stands
still, awaiting spring
so it may sway and churn
to let us know it
teems with life
Once green and verdant,
winter leaves sit and decay
methodically
on mud-caked concrete, gazing
up at their former glory
January
should start a GoFundMe
to hire a marketing expert,
perhaps with social media prowess
alongside a slick-haired attorney
to complain that the phrase
“the dead of winter”
is wholly inaccurate,
its slander
lowering property values.
A thousand winters
come and gone
thick-set sentinels no longer pay
each more than casual attention;
snowmelt slides downslope,
each rivulet latches to newly-found
kin
their meandering journey to
water’s grand community
has begun
Drinking deep, the soil
run through with the needle gifts
of geriatric conifers
each new sprout could,
if lucky,
grow as old and numb
as the sentinel trees
their roots ground into
the forest floor.
In December the
recreant sun cedes the sky
to dark, grieving clouds
each tear turned to wind-lofted
snow, that laughs despite the gloom.
Frost dances its samba,
a three-way with the sky and earth
to fall upon surly trees, devoid of
their vibrant leaves
and lend them a new splendor.
The days grow ever-shorter
so ropes of light
unfold, a grand show of force against the
murky dark.
Lying on the ground, before winter forms its
city of crystal
there is only quiet
awaiting a blooming
unlike any other.
Cold does not see class.
Nor race, religion –
Where you come from,
where you are now
and where you plan to go in the future.
Cold is egalitarian.
Cold is just.
When the trees wake up in a panic
wondering where their rust-hued hair
has gone –
they stand
side by side
with the children, waddling penguins in their parkas
as the school bus is late again.
Unspoken Politics 