Poetry

Winter Meditation

The bare trees have made up their seed bundles.
They are ready now.
The warm brown light pauses briefly, shrugs and moves on.
They are ready now to play dead for a while.
I, human,
have not as yet devised how to obtain such privilege.
Their spring will find them rested.
I and my kind battle a wakeful way to ours.

            ~ Denise Levertov