Nate Fish’s Blog

Being in the Woods on Christmas

There is stark, luminescent surrender in this wintry copse.
The hardest tradition can be buried in snows equality
And the cold, rhythmic crunch may sooth some hearts,
But in this southern winter, no romance of old can easily find being
Just&brown, on gray, on brown, on murky black.
But, its lure has remained reticent in the lasting purity
of this regenerated frontier.
The subtle dependency of my wet-nosed companions trekking ahead of me
Confirms my suspicions that the unity felt in this barrenness is sacred;
We are wandering, but not without purpose.
We are here, something more instinctual than created
in heated cloisters and warmer climes.
In spring or summer, wagging tails may be lost amidst green curtains
And endurance wanes with the oppressive sun.
Now, however, we arrive in a larger place where we allow cached desires
To find direct current between eye and soul.
It may be Christmas, but only because its also two canines new world
My constant as paws crunch leaves like a babe lain upon hay
And the fallen limbs they jump seem to cross like slats of a manger.