Winter’s cold and quiet days—
muted, grey, quick to darken—
hold life in reserve for Spring.
![](https://farm4.staticflickr.com/3780/11611740123_834dd1682c_z.jpg)
Snow hides the undergrowth,
mostly dead now, just seeds and buds,
coiled springs of dormant genomes, waiting.
![](https://farm4.staticflickr.com/3753/12141633983_ef093642c8_z.jpg)
Evergreens keep on working, a little,
old needles grasping at furtive light,
biding time until warmth and sun arrives.
![](https://farm8.staticflickr.com/7342/12389220783_10e6928555_z.jpg)
With it will come the smell of duff and pine,
growth rings fattening under straining bark,
fresh new green bursting from ends of branches.
![](https://farm3.staticflickr.com/2826/12073904424_3522ebd5d8_z.jpg)
The world still spins and circles,
Spring will come, sap will run,
the ancient turnings will continue.
![](https://farm8.staticflickr.com/7430/11921723103_338e1af8a3_z.jpg)