Winter’s cold and quiet days—
muted, grey, quick to darken—
hold life in reserve for Spring.
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Snow hides the undergrowth,
mostly dead now, just seeds and buds,
coiled springs of dormant genomes, waiting.
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Evergreens keep on working, a little,
old needles grasping at furtive light,
biding time until warmth and sun arrives.
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With it will come the smell of duff and pine,
growth rings fattening under straining bark,
fresh new green bursting from ends of branches.
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The world still spins and circles,
Spring will come, sap will run,
the ancient turnings will continue.
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