I missed that winter wood,
So I walked.
What I found in solitude–
Those trickles, tinkles, pebbles, piñons.
Pining for a sentiment of despair.
The winter wood has a hold.
Lull.
Interlude.
Pause.
The light at the end of the dark.
I have felt this despair–
A seasonal death.
A fluctuating intermission.
I stepped slow, methodical.
The winter wood talked to me.
Of the good despair.
Of natural destruction.
I found the tunnel within.
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