Fire and Ice
Driven by the wind,
leaves bright and dry flames
fall light as ashes to the ground.
No longer moist or green with growth
they flutter down and crackle underfoot.
The only way the wind can stop
the tumbling of the blue-gray waves
is chill them til they freeze
hardened, crunch below our shoes
as we cross the frozen lake.
Dead? No. Underneath the ice
the deeps flow slowly, sluggish,
massive, waiting to be warmed.
Underneath the mat of fallen leaves
earth blanketed in slow combustion
prepares a bed from which
the green will flare up reawakened.
I will love the spring when it returns
brilliant and glad.
I do not pine for it.
My soul basks at the low fire
ever dying but never dead.
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