Into the Cold

I find myself in the cold, as bare

as the day I first entered this bitter

world: skin pimpled by winter’s chill,

my warm breath a misty cloud

in the icy northern air, my chest

burning with every panicked breath.

The white dominates the landscape. The dark

and jagged mountains that rose yesterday

are barely visible. Even the green of the mighty

Douglas-firs is covered in thick blankets

of snow, no longer stand proud, bending

to the will of the fierce north country winters.

I can’t remember the feel of the lush

G rass beneath my feet, nor the bouquet

of vibrant wildflowers that once flourished

in this barrenness. Where have the warm

breezes of summer gone, the ones that would

carry me through my floundering?

In the distance, a white-tailed stag stands

tall, nostrils flared, breathing in the familiar pale

morning as he shakes off nature’s savagery

from his shaggy brown robe. His majestic crown

has seen seasons come and go, outrunning

the relentless pursuit of the northern gray wolf.

I long to be like the brave buck, proud and sure-

footed, hardened by nature to face the harsh cold,

yet the unsettled visions of my weary mind don’t

melt so easily. There is no respite, for the menacing

Amarok stalks me in the night, luring me 

to where fear devours the hearts of men.

But fear will not decide for me today. This

season shall pass, and spring will usher

in the thaw. The weight of my despair

will dissolve, and even the delicate petals

of the crocus will break through winter’s vestiges,

radiating hope for a new tomorrow.