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  • On a morning walk my dumb-booted feet depart from the beaten path.
    In over my knees, lurching gracelessly,
    I enter new territory.

    A glimpse of red catches my eye.
    Next to a section of bark, beside a sprig of pine,
    A delicate piece of bloody offal rests on the snow,
    Like a still life.

    My rational mind creates associations,
    Seats me at a trendy restaurant: The Promethean.
    A triumph of foraging, this morsel arrives, artfully arranged, on a plate of snow, sprinkled with bark duff and pine needles, set on a zinc table top, candlelit.
    “The chef would like you to try an amuse bouche, fresh scavenged,” the waiter murmurs.
    This scrap of soft organ meat presented like the jewel, that it is.

    It must have fallen from the sky.
    The snow undisturbed, this collage with viscera resembles an offering, a Seder plate.
    What was soft, warm and protected must now fend for itself,
    Apart from the body, until through time it becomes a part again of the whole.

    Lent has begun and it is the season of sacrifice.
    Here in the Northeast abutting the coast, back to the world, back to the wind, back to the land,
    March puts us on trial.
    Take this and be grateful, each day a gift even when it is the wrong size or color.
    Returning home, out looking from safe windows at the dark forest,
    Beyond the snow-covered field,
    I have put on slippers,
    Knowing somewhere in the dense growth and wild tangles
    Winter’s heart is wounded.

    The intricate machinery of the globe we inhabit has been rewound,
    Spring’s passage rediscovered,
    Blood returns to earth.
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