To be in winter slumber.
To wear musky scent of moss,
find dark soil as a good cushion,
branches a furry canopy,
a united gathering for all occupants
by a rippling, rasping creek.
To be not moved.
To be not alarmed by disastrous
feet tapping messages, cries flung
across dirt–fugitives locked under lid of sky.
To sense one prayerful human.
To bear sharp arrows of need,
such arms embracing ancient forms,
water, bark, lichen as sustenance
to each and all famished ones.
To inhabit a deeper soul like rock
in repose, beauty and succor of the ages.
You must be logged in to post a comment.