by Forrest Getz
As the growl of the engine dies,
My feet punch thru the crusty snow,
What can I hear now, above my breath,
And the whisperings of the wind,
Pure quiet fills my ears.
There are no heartbeats
Besides my own,
The only movement is the tree tops,
And the swirling snow
Both agitated by the wind.
But in this quiet stirs
A restlessness, a changing of the seasons,
That crusted snow the messenger of spring
And summer, change in all.
Then no longer will this be a place quiet,
Instead energized, and teeming with activity,
But the two extremes balance each other,
Keeping rhythm, keeping life,
Like the sway of a pendulum.