Water turns to snow and the earth begins its glow.
A blanket swaddles the earth, except cold and not of the hearth.
We animals seek refuge inside. Afraid of summer’s winter bride.
Waiting, we try to survive. Only some are able to thrive.
They are those who dealt with the froze.
They are those who find the first rose.
The flatland has mountains too.
You just can’t see them,
you can only feel them.
The mountains, they come in waves.
other times not so much.
Very rarely are they quiet, the mountains.
Sometimes a low drone,
other times a screaming whine.
They, the mountains, are always cold and rarely warm.
Sometimes chilling to the bone,
other times cooling sweat.
The flatland has mountains too, I say.
You just can’t look upon them,
you can only be within them.
Tall as mountains and
Strong like a boulder.
Listen to them, for they are older.
Hard as wood but
Soft as a lung.
Here is where those monkeys hung.
Deep as roots and
Old as earth.
It is to them, whom we owe our birth.
This is me,
I am but a tree.
With my roots in the ground,
I am able to grow round.
Through the winter cold,
until the river runs bold.
My branches are strong,
by the wind they sing a song.
Of patience and realness,
and love for stillness.