in a forest near as still as death
as i walk beside a frozen bog
the first month of the new year
when heavy frosts greet every day
brings memories from far away
where i sit to rest a while
after hiking a mere quarter mile
how many winters have i left
both behind and yet to come
one day i'll leave these woods bereft
then head back to where i had begun

my version:

in a young forest nowhere near as still as death
as i walk, footsteps crunching, beside a cracking bog
the burst of my first month of my sunlit new year
warm, even when sugared frosts greet taller days
this blanketed stillness brings covered memories from far away
where i sit with my feet in white turning to water, to rest
long after hiking and sloshing in that melting white
how many leafless winters no needles to thread have i left
both behind and in my mind to forget and yet to come
one day i'll leave these white hot woods bereft
then perhaps head back t the virgin spring where i began