The forest of winter is shrouded in grief.
Sodden snow bears down heavy on the shoulders
of ancient trees, stripped bare of sheltering leaf.
Underfoot, dank autumn remnant moulders,
yet offers no hope of springtime renewal.
The sun cannot penetrate this sullen sky,
to call the life from buried seed; its brutal
denial speaks of a cycle wrenched awry.
Silence rules the woods today, the snow
muffles every step, each sigh and sob.
Small creatures huddle in their dens below;
shunning a land so dismal and macabre.
We shake our frost-black limbs at bitter fate;
if spring should come, it comes for us too late.