blue sky just-winter day
scantly shining sun
low and cold
in these evergreen hills
of cedar hemlock and fir
fish barely shimmering
in cold pond's depth
poppies bending
toward the earth
dreaming of death
whose beauty infuses us all
with misty frost
and drowsing sleep
all to the tune
of recent rousing rainstorms
gushing everywhere
down to the red-brown creek
bereft of human voice
my intention only warmth
i amble down a soggy path
(it rained all night)
to a lonely sunny space
near a newly gushing creek
disturbing one or two
local denizen deer
who also like
these liquid locations
down here's end of year darkness
endless forest shadow
yet in this grace of
a sweet smell
of distant spring
in the cold moist
breath-misted air
as youthfully fair
as the water splashing
in unmitigated delight
out of every hole
down every hill
as if it would never
become the sea