to my waters in winter

to my waters in winter

the glinting flow of autumn’s tea-dark deep
has given way to winter’s snowy white:
beneath the ice the waters softly sleep
as iron day fades into glowing night.
yet still the river runs his endless course,
if hidden by the season from the sun,
and, flowing from his chilly northern source,
finds home where other, deeper waters run;
for though the waters slumber under ice,
the river is not locked within its hold—
instead, transformed, he gladly pays the price
to thrive the length of winter’s bitter cold:
    for ice is formed from water, as we know—
    and so the river lives, beneath the snow.