the snow lies in drifts;
soft blanket cushioning fragile life
humming just beneath the surface.
brilliant blue sky,
tree limbs cradling old nests
and the occasional flock
of chickadees scolding empty feeders
which must look like the mothers
who have abandoned them.
We all tread through scarcity,
lope through abundance as the heads
of crocus pop through the crystals.
How odd both are always present,
yet we respond to Nature in repose
or madly fecund,
as befits our own inner drama.
See the sky?
How does memory serve
when we juxtapose fear and folly
over such blatant beauty as this?