They are like trees planted by streams of water,
which yield their fruit in its season,
and their leaves do not wither.
Snow piles its dreams against the trees,
ice lays its hand over the river
and puts it to sleep,
the teeth of the air bite and hold.
Silence sinks, penetrates—
or does it grow outward,
blossoming, engulfing the woods?
The lovely stillness.
Trees are deep in meditation.
Unseen, their roots know things,
feel without movement, rest without vision.
They are not patient,
they are not waiting,
they have no mind of another time but this.
They are simply being.
Even the furled buds
are not planning, only receiving.
There are seasons whose leaves are stillness,
whose fruit is silence.
Let the moment lock you in its ice.
—February 11, 2019