In the woods, today even the birds are quiet.
The sun is bright and blinding, defying its December temperament.
It’s good to see much is still alive in the winter.
The water in the creek will be long gone by summer
and delicate branches,
like so many Chinese brushstrokes,
will be hidden by April.
What is it this world wants from us?
There are times when the loneliness is so intense
it becomes a sharp anxiety
and there is nothing to do about any of it but wait it out
until it subsides
and reverts back to its regular ache.
At least here, surrounded by the ageless,
being alone becomes a minor tragedy.
Even this wanting to die
means nothing when placed against it.