"The stream has lost its frozen speech
and finds its voice in softer keys,
a murmur at the roots' long reach,
a whisper underneath the freeze."
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I turned toward home beneath a paling sky,
The air not warm, yet looser in its ache.
Behind me, roots were drinking, deep and shy,
Ahead, the road that habit helped me take.
Between the two I walked, a smaller thing,
Yet held inside what all the seasons gave:
The orchard’s year of water, fruit, and wing,
And One who moves through blossom, branch, and grave.