February first/ the Winter Beech

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A dark morning, February first 
brings a deep white cup,
pungent black tea.
With dry faith the pages rustle open:
broken, like old crumbs
the long table of days, the fallen crusts
of ancient Words.
Ashes in the stove are cold. 

Some grey mornings, mild midwinter
I’m shamed to say
even the taste of God grows stale—
unable to stave these hungering pangs,
human hounds of unquenchable sorrow.
I’m sure He knows. 

Put down the Book, put on
the old blue barn coat.
Hat and boots walk me deep
into the sticks of winter woods.
Another morning rain begins to fall.

In forest shadows a tall young Beech
stands there, gleaming white in the mist—
is she an angel, a ghost, merely a metaphor?
Or just a tree, whispering mysteries
in the moist wind, the thin bleached rags
of last year’s leaves?

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–Quilla