Written by: Stephe Watson

Winter warms me. 

It’s not the fire
or the quiet cat on lap. 
It’s certainly not,
the harried, hurried holidays.

The shroud of
same-making snow 
    (the compost pile is the car; 
      the tree stump is the berry bush;
     the woodshed is the forsythia patch)
is how echoes come to rest. 

The words of seasons go
unfollowed by commentary. 

                             ou     c
Sounds no longer b       n     e. 

A thought leads not                     to                 thought. 

Wet boots,
tea mug warm in palm,
sun so low,
the song of snow
(sung sans echo),
is the cessation meditation
sought by seekers
all long year.