Tunnel

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.