I look hard
at this once-only,
never to be repeated morning:
clouds wisping mistily over the Beauforts,
fog dreamily swirling among the trees
and across the pasture,
(spirits, carrying their secrets into the forest.)
I can almost - or am I dreaming? -
hear wolfsong faintly calling from the mountains,
my black wolf, whose spirit roams their slopes.
He misses me.
For solace, I look into the deep, kind eyes,
as old as Soul itself,
of a thirty year old horse,
her nose whuffing a soft greeting
this grey morning,
when everything is on its way
The juncos and the jays are at the feeder
and lately, I've been hearing an eagle's cry
from across the road.
She must have a nest near,
but she remains elusive.
One day she will reveal herself,
when I am worthy,
and maybe she will drop one feather
down to me.
I breathe in the ground, stirring to life again,
in endless cycle,
smile to encourage the daffodils,
inching their way ever closer to blossoming.
This one moment, blessed, peaceful,
a moment of life traded, stored,
acknowledged, by a heart old enough
to recognize its blessings.