In Winter Still Poem by Hunter Hansen

The axe through the wooden piles plows through
Cleaving, a wintry fog and dry rain leaving,
And chips of timber and clovers left in silence pondering

To cleave, splitting a rock in twain
To cleave, each half of the rock once did to each other
To leave, to cleave and no longer to cleave

A subtle rebirth in passive cycles, yielding the calves
In rebuttal to sterile winter staleness, triggering the valves
Of life beyond winter’s paleness, and winter’s comfort

A world of water, a planet of liquid, full of motion
Churning like oceans as leaves are turned on trees
Tuning to the shape of the wind in flexible notions

The boughs unyielding, in fruit and frozen in place
In still pursuit of life again from hibernation, a close
Of remembrance, hoping to shine in snowy clothing

But feeling no loathing in winter still, calm serenity’s
Waves rolling upon the earth to refreshen the life that is
Paused, a cessation of action in which to reflect the green

That once was, the palette of brown twigs, and auburn leaves
And the empty trees, knowing their leaves are buried
Under whited mounds know they shall return springing

And in winter still, the whited mounds rest, their time
On the ground to hide what lies beneath, all kept in humble
Slumber, in warmth of dreams in shivering air

The wintry fog, bellowing sonorities to nights and fugues
To the daylight, conducts an orchestra of intrigues,
Making its own lost paradise a paradise lost

And deep red, yellow, burnt brown leaves perish in
Internment as the cycle continues; they will rise again
Even in falling, they will continue, even in death

Dunes of radiant snow, some days shining with the sun,
Blinding those watching, what makes some days so bleak
Illuminates them far beyond what the grass ever could

Most seasons burying what the ground will never open
Up and swallow, in the snowy months, the flakes will rain,
Begin a shallow dynasty and reign over sod and soil

Upon which men trod, but no longer, in winter still
Letting the white arcades dominate the land, for they may
Be moved, but never dethroned in months of chill

Although the wind blows harshly, and trees stand naked,
And the grass is dominated by chilling forces unabated
Somehow, there is warmth in winter still.