she stands within the clearing
a silent spectre of innocent peace
listening for the rustle of dry leaves
the brittle snap of winter's breath
her flesh quivers with a question
"who goes there,"
she asks, wide-eyed and on her mark
each frosted breath that sighs from
sleeping fox or quiet dove
stirs the air with uncertainty
the forest lies quiet beneath december
a convent for the weary seeking rest
curled ferns and snowshoe hares kneel
speechless in the snowy knave of
a loamy sanctuary where birch trees
bow before the stillness of the season
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