Winter is Waiting

Winter is waiting
by frost-hemmed glass
or moving softly in our fragile warmth
amid silent majestic scenes
of the fractal bones of patient trees
bristling softly against a blanket of gray-white sky.

It is low light, early evenings;
pears, pumpkins, potatoes,
all things round and hearty;
crispness of stars and crustiness of snow
a mere interlude
in our long retreat.

We will adventure again,
wary and lean in the piercing gaze of spring,
filled and emptied with our sitting,
our gathered sleep.
Oh, how my soul drinks
this waiting.