What the Muses Leave Behind

Long shadows of winter woods crosshatch the afternoon road. Sun strobing a windshield in strange Morse code, delivers, not so much an invitation, but a summons, the pull of growing light. Hip deep in such a year as this - never what we intended, askew in storm and surge, we walking dreams of grandmothers and fathers, swim with the avalanche of history at our back. Light as love, light as breath, light as legacy. It comes from deep in time, a tiny germ, a song we feared was lost, a turning point, a pivot, a catalyst. The messenger, a code of pulsing light among the trees, quickens us like the voice of multitudes heard as from a distance: Light as love, light as breath, light as legacy. Winter Solstice 2017 Rosalynn and  John Michael

don’t you love it          the way trees              trimmed                                                             under                                                           power lines get right back up                  to reach for the sky the severed limbs heal         how they send out               new wood                ...