brisk air beckons me
for a mid-day walk in the woods
where winter is revealing herself.

a lone wren delivers her song
a determined, sharp voice 
with little foliage muting her trill.

mushrooms still thrive
during these early, damp days
clinging to log hotels sleeping on the path.

red berries alert
from beneath their thorny branches
enjoy me from afar, now on your way.

water swims along the stream
stroking over rocks rising from the bed
they converse in gurgles where they meet.

low, twisted branches wave naked fingers
suggesting the coming change
in temperature. and otherwise.

burrowed deep within my forest's robe
securely wrapped in comfort and hope
i am balanced, outside and within.

i take this winter walk in gratitude
for all i've brought forward with me
and for that which i chose to leave behind.

“winter is not a season, it’s an occupation.” – Sinclair Lewis