In a cold low place filled with shadows
time and air sit silently.
Old trees block the sun.
Cobbles protrude from earthly matter
veined with minerals that sparkle no more.
Dark winged birds flutter in thick bramble mounds.
Buried here in this
are secrets that wait
like seeds, undisturbed
for decades waiting to be uncovered
and embroidered with patterns of light.
Plants invade, butterflies deceive, a quiet plan
Saplings of the crowded forest rarely flower.
Still, they create stems and leaves that reach upward.
I have seen a Swallowtail butterfly enter the
forest veil and
rest for many minutes on the leaf of a stunted choke cherry.
And pass by the sweet fragrance of a garden rose.
Society of Plants
There is movement in the forest.
Nameless individuals grow, as we sleep.
They reach up, in search of an advantage.
In my dream, trees and birds protect me,
yet they cast shadows on darker events.
Hiding in the grove,
a crow eyed an opening of sky.
A cold breeze drove air across the trees.
Not-yet-turned leaves fell.
The bird flew off, arcing
through the branches.
His wings made a sound of rustling
The Moon Has No Light
The Moon has no light of her own, hers
is a marginal brightness. Though she drifts
farther from sight, she is the luminary of the night.
But in the dark hours
her will draws out the winter buds,
causes the seas to swell
and with a thin finger, points the way to spring.