In the barren isolation of pine.
No matter, how immobile, I wish to be.
It is no secret.
I must move my feet.
Nature crunches below.
While frolic and folly, ascend, above.
Winter’s stroll becomes a gusty game of hide and seek.
No need to daydream of summer’s peak.
Passive is the lull of traction.
The sun has no motive.
It is just a reaction to my half hearted…actions.