My small lot under snow like a blank sheet of paper
invited a mark. I have never been able to
leave such a space undisturbed. So forgetting
the cold and forsaking all shelter I walked through the yard.

My steps clumsy and aimless, I wandered the ground
too soon crossed to its boundary. Woe in the creaks
of the maple stood there was made peaceful somehow
by the dusting, the chill of its nakedness made somehow warm.

Now adorned in white lightly, long suffering winter,
the old wood detained me. My hand found its back,
my touch meant to console for or ask of or share in
adversity weathered. I searched its scarred crust for a sign.

Still its limbs reached away toward the source of its hardship
in private communion and I was alone
with the cold breath, the silence, the works of that season.
The coat serendipity gave me to wear was too thin.

Though I turned up its collar I shivered inside
and for that looked away where the proof of my ambling
made light of the elements real to me now.
Was it weakness, I wonder, or wisdom I left at the tree.