The hard-pack snow is covered in textures this morning after the wild winds of the last two days. Every bit of tree debris that landed on the icy-hard surface has created its own little bed, a melted-out basin, each in its particular shape – a twig, a pine cone, an acorn, a leaf. I’m wondering if these carbon-based artifacts all contain some kind of inherent warmth, or if they just absorb more warmth from the sun and the atmosphere than their frosty surroundings.
Whatever the source, it feels promising. The patient persistence of life asserts itself against winter’s frozen dormancy. I think there’s a poem in there somewhere…
Robin Clifford Wood is an award-winning author, poet, and writing teacher. She lives in central Maine with her husband, loves to be outdoors, and enjoys ever-expanding horizons through her children, grandchildren, and granddogs.