Color is her gift to us
lifting from the dream
dark sleep of winter
a bright orange promise
from ancient cities
below the sea
to the unborn waiting
in the midnight blue
of her future.
Sitting in the dark
before first light
I feel you in the air,
the warmth of the fire
so extraordinary and simple,
tea with leaves from India,
honey from the devotion of bees
and a small silver spoon stirring,
speaking subtly
as the morning does
of your voice
and the bright glowing spark
of all that awakens.
Something luminous waxes within
as I watch the moon rise
full again upon the Earth
telling its old tale once more,
the mysteries of gain and loss,
of all who loved and failed to love
or find their way
on the path of pale light
glimmering in the winter forest,
speaking in silence
through all our forgetting
of how She holds us
in the ancient folds of Eden.
High up in the gray sky
tall firs sway in a wind
not felt beside the pond
glistening in the day’s last light
abandoned by geese and ducks
even in this mild winter.
I plod along the empty path
watching branches far above
catch and wave in Oregon color
as I wave to the lives I’ve lived
gone like the geese of winter,
wondering what will come on this wind,
if I will rise like evergreen sap
for another spring, another pulse of life,
searching through my inner darkness
for the knowledge of a seed
and a spark of love to see it through.