Winter

What can be said of Winter,
oh, whispering pine?

What can be said of your blanket
of white, such a pristine silence
inside the advent of all my loneliness?

What can be said of Love?

I walk through a patch of light,
there
between the sacred circle
of evergreens,

the air is cold, my breath
forms vapor trails,
ascending, descending, dissipating,
refreshing the seasons
I let go

the meadow from where
the red fern grows
slumbers
and this is where the lion and the lamb
shall sleep tonight