Thank God for Gaia’s winter refusal,
that she turns her back on the sun
and the expense of growth;
inside the deeps and darkness occupied
with roots that are no one’s business
but her own.
Let’s be quite clear about the matter:
the bleak status quo is her sanctuary
and the long barren night, her need.
Thank God cold comes,
closing the door firmly
against human incontinence:
Go away, it says,
If you want more floral festivity,
you will have to wait till March.
Waiting is good
and refusal is fine by me.
We’ll take a leaf
from Gaia’s book,
light our invisible lamps and
be our own Ash tree.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Mysterious, compelling and beautifully displayed. Another for the 'favourites' box.