Tales from the Bent Twig Trail: The Heart of Winter

by Wren Smith

The heart of winter
beats beneath my frozen feet
and beneath the crunching earth.
It beats beneath my hearing,
beneath my seeing. 

The heart of winter beats
in the sleeping wooly bears.
In their curved coats of black and brown 
down in crevices under the logs,
like banned question marks.

The heart of winter 
beats in the beech trees.
In their clinging leaves
waiting for wind and rain
to send them home.
It beats in their lance-like buds. 
Each one a prelude to spring.
Each score rolled, no scrolled
In living parchment.

The heartbeat of winter 
beats in the frozen amphibian statues
of living wood frogs–
Just below the edge of life;
they live!
The heart of winter 
beats in the rhythm of their dreams —
of breeding ponds and dripping woods.

The heart of winter
beats in the acorn
whose shell has thawed–
and frozen and thawed.
It beats in the green genie 
who is already awake                                                                                                                                                                                                     in their hidden chamber —
ready to grant wishes.
Ready to be root and trunk
and radiant center 
of a universe
that doesn’t see itself the center.

The heart of winter beats
in the quiet uprising of sap
and swelling buds,

ready to turn sunlight into song.

Ready for the
revolution of  caterpillars and
hungry birds.

“The beat goes on.”
Sonny and Cher were right.