A thin skin of ice on the pond
comes and goes, an eye opening and closing.
Soon it will tire and stay closed.
The cattails rattle along the shore,
the red twig dogwood has nothing to say.
Sedges have bowed their heads
for the long prayer service.
There is no fear here.
Little creatures, and some great ones, have gone in.
The oaks hold their secrets tightly.
The last geese row, patient, across the pond of sky.
They know where they’re going.
The squirrels trust their hoards,
the nuthatches, the finches know
where to find things,
the chickadees know their songs.

I believe we can learn to trust
what is to come,
and what will come after that.

Steve Garnaas-Holmes
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