Upstairs my office sits insulated to either side,
Save for the large picture window filled across
This winter morn with sparkling forest floor,
From which rises the sentinel oaks and dark elms.
Like quiet black skeletons they stare in,
With calm resolution of their immobility.
No sound. Not one small breeze moves. Cold.
They study me carefully bathed with golden
Light now piercing each black pupil. At last,
The voices, low at first, then heavier emerge,
In concert with bright brown meadow behind.
Green patterns of chorus rise in harmony,
Along their rigid spines as though to lift
Each one toward a blank heaven – a song!
Rise up winter man, from dark solitude
Stretch out your eyes, open your strong soul,
Move with joy, for you are free to come or go,
Put out your hand and feel our mother sun,
Sing with us of beauty in our resting,
As we compose the song of spring in stillness.