In autumn they acquiesce, their bright yellow
needles cover the ground, abandoned confetti
strewn by failing light, falling temperatures.
Hammered by winter, they endure scant sunlight,
the gelid air clamping down hard, harder still
over muskeg muffled in snow and hoarfrost.
Spring runoff saturates the bog, soaks the
latticework of shallow roots as new needles
burst bright green along each knobbed twig.
Summer hefts its simmering weight into slender
branches, clusters of tufted needles embrace daylight,
such extravagant brightness in this northern latitude,
so much mystery arranging itself over and over while
we struggle to learn how to be this resilient, long to
know, that even in extremity, there are ways to hold on.