In the thicket of morning I lean at the railing,

search between trees for confirmation

of our mountains, their resoluteness rising

within a miasma of relentless winter.

The diaphonous scene releases nothing

of canopy or carpet of springtime.,

I have only memories of camellias,

snowdrops, crocus that surely color lowlands.

Here on the side of a volcano, I forget.

Below and beyond are rotting stumps,

a proliferation of fungi that embellish forest,

and leaves cast off in good faith before

we were captured again by the specter of illness.

I strain to see the evidence of more.

I need an embrace of verdant offerings,

birds greeting and flying close to me

and bees hunting for hearts of flowers.

This fog that blinds is winter’s mantle;

it seems to own these times but it is gossamer:

it shifts, it parts its icy curtain and there–

there is the sight that has kept me waiting.

It reveals brave peaks which guard the valley

and reminds of days blessed by sunlight and roses,

my feet climbing through friendly mosses,

the infinite sky a kiss bestowed on every living thing.