~Tricia Gates Brown
Summer ones live to be seen,
pluck and do-da and who does not
love them—all charge, splendor, hue?
But winter ones live for the under
sides, roots gnarled, long as bloodlines, fettered
to books and burials; faces not seen on
TV, but sifting media and message, tech
and Technicolor, turned to wiser winds,
more ancient of days.
Winter ones keep time that has
been spent, set things right;
in quiet, they hear. This culture,
eternal summer not deep December, needs
winter ones, invisible ones, untethered to eye
and ear, ratings-exempt and unelectable, true as weed roots,
never wasting away.