Late Winter

it is still outside, the hills are static
their shape, their surface, their life unseen
wind chills and in the trees the pine cones sing
a cold song of the dying winter

a flower is forgotten by the frost
its purple head needs no big images
there will be no echo when it falls
sorrow lives here in the stone cottage

where a fire is made, and pine cones crackle
in the flames. The warmth shows cold muscles
what the striving mind cannot understand

their perception is their transformation
that is how they learn

to sooth always the signs of your time
convert what heat you find in playful jest
as there is always a burning in our back
and the pine cones burn quicker than the rest

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