Of Winter Light Dispelled in Passing

Four paths of seven breaths each

Ah, but I speak...

Ah, but I speak

with myself all too freely

on slow, winding walks

through a chilly bone wood

past kettle pond poised

for an icy departure

in quiet contentment

and pale, mottled light

made whole in the presence

of old friend and new

who indulge not a whim

to exchange empty words

about breathing the world

every step down the way

Sylvan voices converge...

Sylvan voices converge

and restore us to music

symphonic if riddled

by dark, haunting pauses

each creak and chirp honed

from an air long forgotten

when soul was not scored

by a rude education

but open and wise

to all whisper and chant

in the paper birch hollows

deceived not by stillness

the ear keenly tuned

to dead leaves in faint flight

Over untended gates...

Over untended gates

two stout linden hold sway

years apart

from the garden

neglect has raised wild

down a foot path eroded

by muddy storm waters

that flood

a gray orchard

deep-rooted and bowed

in waves

of bold thicket

and unfettered vine

old plots

of prim snowdrop

betray new arrivals

that bloom

without fretting

nor fuss for design

Of the forest I sing...

Of the forest I sing

being sung by all others

on feathers made light

by the molting of seasons

where sun-fat raccoon

and a wisp-of-wind doe

nose mindful of earth

among bare, thorny bramble

undaunted by strangers

who bliss the full tide

each aching stride waking

down trails rediscovered

impermanent me

goes as never before

Lloyd Vivola

Vernal Equinox 2013