Both are Incessant

 

 

Small bird keeps pecking;
Icicles drip behind him;
Both are incessant.

 

 

 

Slowly the ice melts,
Dripping from the drainage pipes,
Shifting in the snow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Beyond wood gate
Two paths fork through the snow field,
Each with their own purpose.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Wind blows up the road--
Vigorous but still gentle,
A late winter breeze.

 

 

 

The rugged wood fence
Leans backward, pushed by the snow--
Fruitless resistance.

 

 

 

 

 

The ancient stream bed
Now covered with dark shadows
Waits under the snow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Small hole in tree stump
Draws my attention to it:
Mystery portal!

 

 

 

 

Stone wall on the hill,
Not built by the hands of men,
But wrought by the gods.