From The Cold

From the Cold

From the cold comes
solemn clouds whose
heavy burden is released;
snowflakes sneak in slowly
then whirl in wild winds,
swirling like a galaxy of stars.

From the cold comes
the great, white owls
of the North who sit
silently in marshes and fields;
their large yellow eyes
scan for rodents in barren lands.

From the cold comes
mornings as crisp as cookies
dipped into hot tea
as we sit by the fireside
waiting for the sun.

From the cold comes
days hard as ice
that now covers the lake;
stills the waves;
quiets the flotillas of ducks.

From the cold comes
fishermen who drill
through frozen surface;
wait patiently in frigid breeze
for a tug on their line.

From the cold comes
long nights near the hearth
in patient contemplation
of our particular place
in the omnipresent joy.