Friday’s Poem: Walking Among Them

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.

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