One day past solstice

with enough sun to spark

the hardened seed of faith

buried in winter

against cold and loss,

porous only to light’s

slightest undulation,

the naked tendril of desire

daring to uncurl in the dark.

On mornings years ago

I’d walk dew soaked grass

looking to the winter stars,

feeling in the vast dark

and cold wet ground

a rooted life

I took for granted.

I keep that with me

in the smell of morning

as I look to you

in the grace we know

above December’s earth,

making a home right here

quietly among the stars.

From here the pathway opens,

forest thinning into meadow pond,

gnarled pines sweetening the air,

stillness steeping from the bedrock,

weight carried from the trailhead

dissolving in the dirt track,

breaking down like memories

under mountain sun;

wherever you are you are also here,

easing the thorn caught suffering

for a view of grass in morning breeze,

track of deer along the water’s edge,

the voice that called you long ago

speaking through the wind,

comforting the ache,

the lead like burden,

in this quiet place

where you are known.

The path will lead back to your life

and all its harsh restraint

but what is gone leave gone.

What you bring back will grow

like seeds rooted years ago,

a tree against the wind,

gathering from grass and stone

through root and branch

your tree of life, your shade, your seeding,

gifts beyond the furthest edges of your hope.

 

Thankfulness
like falling snow
covers and quiets
the furrowed fields
and wintergreen moss.
Ridges of desire
wrapped within
a silent cloak,
grateful for breath
and all that rises;
the earth still,
softly open
to the blessing.