The Frozen Woods

I do not move
as often as I should,
snow-laden gate
that bends-
a shattered ray
through water.

To be silent,
or transfixed,
a lesson in loss;
a wall of fog
broken, dispersed
like spoiled milk.

I know what terrifies
the screeching owl,
the shadowed wolves-
stillness of
the frozen woods

and when the breath
of mist and rain
becomes uneven,
labored in
the chill

grey mountains
lay as quiet
as they should.