Give me a winding path
that leads nowhere
and I'll follow.
Give me the straight and narrow
that points right at the goal
and I'll veer off-trail
where heather and woodbine
thicken, and a thrush
babbles no instruction.
Now is the first day of the year,
oh so cold I'll follow my roots
down into the hollow,
where fur and larvae dream
of flowers, and seeds
lie awake in the dark,
witnessing the long
quiet luminous breath
of Winter.
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