More North than home,
this morning-still forest–

dull today, awaiting
more snow, more sky, more

anything– a drowsy
forest, half-sleeping

under packed-down ice,
still dirt where the sun

breaks through, on some days,
but not this one, no more day now

than hours ago, barely more
than night, the sun somewhere

in its low arc, somewhere
under these insulating clouds,

very little moves, the lake
comes as a surprise, so silent

at its banks, even my breath
lingers a little too long

after I turn to return,
an offering to

the coming months,
more supplication than gift