Mid Winter Blues

On the high, wide hills,
where the winds are born
and the land is older than time;
where the rivers begin and the land is harsh,
we can stand, be ourselves,
take off our masks,
abandon pretence and charade.

We may be afraid
to open ourselves
to the searing wind and the rain.
For what is behind
the facade we present?
What if the masks,
fixed for so long
have become what we fear to be real?