Winter’s Truth

In Wingello State Forest

Winter’s Truth

Now is the time of wood and cow pats,
stove and compost, fuel of the fire
we call blood. Seed time, star time,
bud and sap withdrawn and rising
into bare branches playing dead.

What strings pull this into shape?
Is the westerly’s keen knife in on it,
julienning water, felling trees? Is
the poem seeded in the dead of night?

Wood warms us fraternal as tree
thought, cow shit feeds like mothers,
soils sighing silence into fruit.
No dying without birthing, winter’s
truth a complete and holy myth.

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~ by Peter Lach-Newinsky on July 14, 2011.

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