. . . I sleep early, rise
earlier than daylight, wait
with affected person stupor
the approaching grey gentle
. . . I transfer slowly,
surreptitiously — an
animal hungry to seek out 
success within the hunt.

In days of winter
. . . I return to books
to learn over, one thing
of a seasonal ritual
that comforts, reminds
me the place I’ve been. 
It’s too cloudy to know 
the place I’m going.

In days of winter
. . . I face morning alone,
I go to sleep alone — really feel
the standard truth of being
beloved by so many who
usually are not with me — whose
love can solely accomplish that a lot
for me, and I for them.

Every cedar stands and falls, 
lastly, all the time, alone. 
From the sky, we’re a uninteresting 
inexperienced swarm, a collective 
voice calling for peace, 
for justice — American beliefs 
we imagine — so usually 
with invisible outcomes.

However stroll amongst us, sense 
scraggly arms certain in frigid 
air, tough bark emitting 
a powerful odor we’ve got grown 
used to — a singular perfume
in dank air — every cedar 
stands and falls lastly,
all the time, alone.