A heavy snow has rendered the land
in black and white,
the woods in thick cloaks,
every tree and branch broken, bent or bowed,
the path obscured by snow-piled limbs,
trees down, landmarks smudged and wrong.
Overburdened branches crack and fall,
and sigh, and settle and return to silence.
I go over them, or around.
The world looms, its plunderings,
the way it has me turn aside,
its strange beauty, its knee-deep weight,
presses against me.
I would turn back, but this is the way.
This belabored path
takes me home.
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