Mid-winter is reasonably pleasant here in Central Ohio. Some sunny days, warmish, in the 40s and 50s. But mostly chill and gray. Little snow so far. Can we divine a purpose in winter? This poem suggests we can:
Stillness of the woods is comprehensive
river long distracted from her flow
frozen current, time’s abandoned moment
we hear the crackling of her dwindled fire.
Even if we all prefer the spring
winter takes her placid time in leaving
she has her job, to her it’s far from grim:
she’s calming the abundant fields.
Without her, spring’s green feet would overdrive us
exhausted oaks would tumble in profusion
hearts of burrow denizens would falter
great herds would die from overmuch delight.
Winter steals the land back to its bedrock
chills the untamed rambling of our minds
she understands the need of rest and darkness
for deep work we must do to later thrive.