Beneath dark clouds
if climbs, happy and wild,
bright flowers, shining sun-gold
as ancient river breezes rustle with why, which, when–
the seeds of deep time that grow from cold earth, warmed,
following moon song and spring’s light
to blossom here, now
I cast a soul-stone into the blue-grey water,
watch the soft rippling and listen to the wind sigh.
The Oracle knows everything, including all about my almost daily morning walk and mourning ritual of throwing a stone into the river as I stop for a moment and think about my mom.