My damp, snow laden bows, weighted by the burden of winter’s past and present.
Tested by the elements who rebel against their mother
Earth and life itself.Life’s sap in my petrified trunk flow not.
Slowed to a crawl
as it selects which appendage to feed next.
Each feeding in relation to
and dependence upon the other.Inward I go, spiraling like a serpent;
one ring to the next.
Bow to trunk.
Trunk to roots.A roll call of sorts;
I check in to regain my rooted footing.
Recalling energy beneath my foundation.
Dare not I fall.Entombed in frozen soil.
Fortressed by boulders and rocks of all sizes.
Knotted in a web of interdependent roots
and neighboring structures.
Each relying upon the other.The well of nature’s hope
resides deep, deep down.
Life’s volatile and spiritual volcanic core.And with a burst and crackle of an east wind,
my bows summon a chant of winter’s past.
An ancient beat that both soothes and commands.
Stuttering it’s way out of my bow’s chattering teeth.Hope she sings, come spring.
Winter’s grip released,
brings her light once more.
