Mist falls and lies and seeps where sun should
shine and fill the damp spaces with glitter.
Cold clings to cottony seedpods
spider-webbed with droplets, while
birds squabble for crumbs or distant call
among the black trees, singing up the change.
We watch the unchanged, the hanging, falling
mist mixed with cloud, and the cold digs deeper.
Only I wait; earth, birds, mist, silent shoots
and roots stir, strive, uncoil, too busy being.