Men come and go like leaves, but I remain on the tree. Winter comes to claim me, but still I cling.
I am a needle, evergreen, sheathed in a shell of ice, waiting for the thaw of spring.
I will not let go and fall for this I know; it is a long way down and I am not a sparrow.
I cannot fly.
Once I have made my peace with the ground,
there I will stay with the others,
January 10, 1997