Deep in the January forest,
in anemic sunlight,
it’s the conifers that dominate,
wresting their green
from white frost,
compacted snow,
while the haggard maple,
the emaciated oak,
have long since succumbed.
The spruce, the fir, the hemlock,
should be your models
as, stick in hand,
you trudge the treacherous
icy trails,
on a bitter morning
of stark bird song
and occasional undergrowth rustle.
Mile after mile,
into the winter woods,
think cones, not seeds,
needles, not leaves,
fulsome, not cadaverous,
and survival as yourself,
not as atoms and molecules
in endless circulation.
This is nature
at its starkest.
So be human at your
most resilient.
