Shadows need trees to grow.
They draw blueness from the sky
and with it drench the snow.
To nurture them the sun bends low.
My tongue worries a fresh line
as a goat nibbles on haw.
I am secure in this hinterland
but on the street they would judge me
a homeless man who’d lost his wife.
Snowshoeing in the dormant forest,
the slanting light lending
each hummock its special shape,
I manage this once not to tabulate
what trees to fell next autumn.
Mere words cannot hold the sun’s power.
Campfires blaze, furnaces incinerate,
but here on the trail I marvel
at a brightness that preserves the cold.