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.