Even the river surrenders
drop by drop to deep winter
flows slowly into stillness
as its clear conviction clouds with languor.
Sliding by the ouzel, together we marvel
at how the power that carves canyons
creates electricity
levels homes
can be brought to rest by
the silent sinking of an unseen adversary.
Who am I then
to push ahead with so much going and doing
that is likely better not gone and done.
Who am I to resist the force of freezing
that can silence the very source of life.
What might I find in this white-washed world
of waiting, watching, whiling
away the days wondering
when the water will warm and rush with lucid purpose again.
A lovely winter poem!