Not yet buried, yet decorated in winter,
The seeds will take hold this Spring,
Making a masterpiece of nature,
And a renewed forest.
If we give them space to grow.
Just enough for the healthy to survive,
A little less for those who live in the mountains,
Where the air is cleaner anyway.
This miracle occurs with every breath,
Filling lungs, driving heart,
Dispersing energy to veins,
For whatever we want to do with it.
So, the question remains.
What are we to do with it?
Surrounding the trees,
Or sheltering therein,
Tables stand their ground,
Those who will gather.
The thin ice shows its face occasionally,
But mostly stays quiet,
Waiting for a change to occur,
Strengthening and weakening,
With no apparent change in appearance.
Like myself and the others around me.
Belying danger which lurks below.
Pink, choice of color of all four-year-old girls,
And avoided by boys,
Creating future stereotypes,
Based on interpreting a wavelength,
In the mind.
making Pink a word, not a color?
And what someone says it means.