In the woods, where winter tightens sight,
A pale road threads between the rigid trees
The snow receives the cart with muted ease
And dims the world to motion, hushed and white.
Bare branches rise like doubts against the light,
Yet onward goes the horse, unasked to please;
Each careful step dissolves into the breeze
That swallows sound, intention, and delight.
No sign declares what waits beyond this way,
No promise warms the driver’s hidden face;
The road persists because it must.
Thus faith is learned in going, not in staying:
To move through cold, through narrowing time and space,
Is proof enough—one goes because one goes.
Concetta Pipia
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