Bare limbs and bird song…
The sun finds gold in newly fallen snow;
another week of freeze until February.
The lore of a groundhog is a grand distraction.
We feast on the fruit of our labors. No need
to rue the withered bloom; spring will come again.
Treasons, tensions, masquerades;
seasons pass. Each must take the litmus test;
how much difference will it make
a hundred years from now?
Priorities evolve, dissolve; trends change.
Pray we pick our battles wisely.