The floes rush around
the log
scraped clean in the current
dark and soaked, thin and thinning ever
it holds its alignment
letting spring ignore
its sunken branches, now roots
witness, maybe the only one,
to the whimpers of winter
as she is pushed under
the good witch's return
all benevolence but no honesty
all good hope but forgetful
of what is still left to mourn.
Dec. 15, 2010
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