Is it beauty–this ache you feel
in a spray of silvered light?
After the dark, the cold, the storm,
the night of bitter winds and blooded moans—
how still the world becomes—
moon on sea and vines, sublime the after-well.
And if she chants, listen,
as a tree rooted holds the connection—
clasping tendrils networked below while branching arms reach high,
so you, heart-entwined and grounded, gaze up
to her beauty–
and listen for the song of those who came before,
sending your dreams to those who come after.
I visited the Magnetic Poetry Oracle yesterday morning, as usual, but I didn’t have a chance to post the poem yesterday. No doubt, the Oracle knew I needed this photo, taken yesterday afternoon to go with it. I’m behind on reading and commenting, but I will catch up today and tomorrow. 😀