trust

you carry l i g h t 
in your crackled hands
and i wait for morning
to shine its first moon glow
in through the winter
w h i t e
of day

Foraging

Light lingers,
like the smell of thyme
on that newly born mountain.

Spring, fresh as birth/
wild as oak,
holds her tune.

Our river,
mysterious and ancient as the night,
rushes forth.

The past is younger than our fading youth.
I gather my mornings in close
and pick harebells in the evening's white glow.