A bit of rope
hoists dry wood,
an ark to sail through the seasons.


Dry plank kissed with snow,
you sit quietly awaiting the spring
when children will find you
and laughter abounds.
Until then, sit in the silver silence
of dusted snow,
wind caressing your gnarled wood
as you watch over wood pile beneath you.


Dizzying, the canopy of leaves sways above
as toes touch sky
leaving the ground
far below.
Sun glints off leaves
and filters the new breath of spring’s promise
as grubs burrow deeply
confessing dark secrets to succulent earth.

Wood warms to the syrup of summer sun
twisting through shady pine
the still air weighty in  
somnolent afternoon.
Pine needles blanket the scuff
where small feet have
leapt from earth,
trading fear for the promise of freedom .

Cold air bites and nips
as it pulls leaves desultorily
to ground around you.
Days shorten.
Wind sharpens.
Few attempt flight now.

A bit of rope
hoists dry wood,
an ark to sail through the seasons.