I am not complete,
I will never be complete,
like a breaking sky.

Wabi sabi: incomplete

Moon out at midnight,
wound up in restless dreaming,
I imagine it.

The December grey,
in this last week of the year,
trying to find light.

There is light inside
the pull of the hidden moon,
the flowing river.

An alternate life:
the trying for something more,
seeking and searching.

We walk the river,
a bufflehead swims and dives,
we find trees chewed down.

Sunrise behind clouds,
the shortest day of the year,
light because of dark.

Day after solstice,
we creep back towards the light,
the seed in our minds.

A bittersweet bloom,
some of the only color
on this cold, grey day.

The last light of day,
anointed in this forest,
your absence, your smile.

Meaning is somewhere:
rearranged every day,
sometimes known, sometimes…

Consequential things—
the otherworld in this world,
learning the beauty.

We go in again,
changed by it every time:
proof of life, so close.

In my hands then gone,
these stars that fell overnight,
falling all day long.

The loops and chatters—
sky and trees full of Robins,
we enter their woods.

Not a moment lost,
voices never forgotten,
life beyond living.

Belief starts over —
lights go out every day,
our hands left empty.

Creek changed by beaver,
now still enough to reflect
above the new dam.

Mackerel skies all day,
like a sheet of paper, drawn
steadfast, defiant.

These snowy Sundays,
pulling meaning from blank skies,
solemn, leafless trees.