Form a Bridge

Along the border of night and day
old ghosts walk the valley
among the shades of beaver,
fox, raven and wolf,
their wisdom a voice within
to guide us through winter dark.
Nothing can replace the wild
but in the space where dreams awake
we take our place beside the fearless
and form a bridge to Eden.




What I Desire

Sheets of rain then open sky,
rivers run, spilling their wealth,
ironwood trees bulging with desire,
spring drawn from the earth well.
I am slow to get up
sated with the luxury of sleep
but I see birds circling
and something in me lifts.
The destination is far,
the road filled with changes
yet the world is ready
to let winter dark rise.
More than root and branch
I am the rising
and what I desire is light.




watercolor by Eilish Hynes


Laid to Rest

Thick moss covering the wet ground
easily lifted beneath his hands,
an opening for the burial.
He had come to this space
beside the cold flowing creek
to bring what was left of their memory;
he’d carried the corpse long enough.
Wildness called him from the dark
as he trekked to his old campsite.
Lifting back the green shroud
he pared away the soft earth
and placed the broken twigs
and desiccated flower
that were his fondest hope.
Arranging the bone-like sticks
to settle in their resting place,
he folded the blanket of moss
over the grave in forest silence,
scooped dirt into the cut edges
until the wound was filled.
Then he gently tamped the earth
and turned back to the winter creek,
the frigid crossing and mended life
that was his own.




Hip Deep

Long waves of blue-grey clouds
connect the valley to the sea.
Across the coast range falling rain
as branch and creeks begin to fill
and the sound of water
echoes off tree lined canyons
to the soft green spread below.
Earth is woven with fine filaments
each strand strengthening the next,
the wind in the trees adding their message
of the evergreen life on a cold morning.
We interrupt, we neglect to imagine
yet find ourselves hip deep in the mystery.
What will connect us through these years of winter,
come alive in the open bowl of our hands?
Follow the clouds and welcome the threading
woven in the hours before first light.
Indeed we’re more than the earth has made.