What rests below
does not sleep
unless by sleep
you mean dream
which she does
but not slumber,
the hidden soul
of her forest body
alive with minerals,
tiny hair-like roots
in stones awash
with breathing earth.
She will birth
and she will die;
we will grieve
and rejoice with flowers.
There is no end to color
or the story we re-imagine.
The sky god brings his light
yet what he brightens
is her mystery
dying and eternal.
Broken and ever whole
she speaks to the night sky
of all her many loves,
passing through space
with the whoosh of an owl.

Photo by Michel Roy

Beneath the ice
and above the fog,
on the valley floor
with bare branches
carving the winter sky
and rivers running
to the distant swelling sea,
the whole of life
like a vast circular ring
orbits the heavens
awaiting your jewel-like
facets full of forgiveness
to complete this holy creation.

Winter Barn by Sandy Brown Jensen

We’re in December
and something is thawing
not just in the air
with blankets of fog
or in the rain soaked ground
but in the deepest cavern
where the unknown dwells,
hardened ice slowly dripping
and what was locked in stone
begins to seep,
bearing the mystery
like a tiny foot reaching out
with the thinnest flesh
to break the shell
and announce itself
upon the awaiting world.

Before the head moved
the body seemed
part of the rock
stepping down
to the cold rising tide;
when the head raised
rippling layers of fat
the seal was outlined,
still more earth than animal
until he uncoiled
and with small shapely fins
dropped into the water,
taking his sea form,
his strength in the world below
as he left the day-lit point
for the last of the salmon,
following the currents,
in touch with the tide,
deep within the web unfolding.

The sun is south
in the morning sky
as if it were leaving us
with colorless farewell,
the gold of autumn burned
to brilliant white.
With bare arms
and empty branches
the hunger of the earth
in dark outline
before descent
and the long rest
of winter.