Made of memory,
things passed are alive in us,
things lost are not lost.

Dreams dreamed together,
remembering in a dream,
belief starts over.

These familiar things,
hands busy with ritual,
cold December day.

Somehow light gets in,
accepting the short gray days,
waking in darkness.

Clear, blue-skied solstice,
the sun was red this morning,
stars split into two.

Sun up behind clouds,
another gray winter day,
doves feed on thrown seeds.

Into the deep well,
swimming through words and pictures,
the year, ending soon.

Short December day,
gray sky from morning to night—
breaking me open.

On the earth’s surface,
under a cold glowing moon,
in the shining snow.

Empty for winter,
the locked together twig nest
full of meadowsweet.

Walking before dark,
we exchange the day’s troubles,
lichen blooms wildly.

The seed gatherer,
I collect them for beauty—
for what is to be.

The artifact box—
the rosettes and nimbuses,
of acorns, pinecones.

Yellow shells and buds,
meadowsweet and lavender
create a story.

Bright eyes of a walk,
discoveries in his mind,
every leaf and breath.

Artifacts of life
I’ve picked up along the way,
flying and growing.

Goldenrod has turned,
we walk in differently—
like we’ve swallowed stars.

Sunburst on sunburst,
gray and yellow repeating—
December lichen.

Floating on treebark,
the oldest earthly beings,
star rosette lichen.

Lichen draws me in,
masterly ancient ochre—
lone parking lot tree.