It is all very well to survive the abundant months of the spring and summer, but in winter, we witness the full glory of nature’s flourishing in lean times.

—Katherine May, from “Wintering”

•••

And so I winter, here in a place where they have winter,
unlike my place, which has, at best, a half-pint version,

except in times of great drenches, which continue to
cut swaths through my home turf two states south,

while up here in the mizzle of the Pacific Northwest,
winter lands mostly gray and chilly, except for the day

of my arrival when it lived up to its rainy reputation.
It is, it turns out, a good place for wintering. To quell

throbbing head and straining throat brought on
by the Big Bad Bug, I go commando in the hot tub

twice a day because the last round of this virus
taught me that a good sit in sultry water

can quell symptoms enough to make one
feel downright normal. Even in winter.

Now I relish the quiet—birds at the feeders
go about their business with so little fuss

it’s as if someone switched off their voices.
Meanwhile, the greater world conducts its

missions: a submarine under heavy escort
by weapons-laden destroyers, accompanied

by a tug and small guideboats, lumbers
up the canal outside my window, where

eventually, I’m told, it will submerge and
head into the darkness of the coldcold sea.

Which makes wintering on land so much
more appealing, waiting for what I can’t

control to pass, oddly content, watching
muted light dance softly on ship-generated

wake, noticing tiny greening bits arising
on the brown-tipped butterfly bush, as,

high up on their patient, slender branches,
the alders must be sprouting similar buds,

me down here, marveling
that I’m here to see it.