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