November 9, 2006

Writing the Wild

On frosty mornings stand by the winding stream
under the beeches and close your eyes,
playing again the autumn that has passed away,

evoke the parting songs of migrating loons,
meadowsweet in the hollow going to seed,
the sweet spice of tumbling leaves and acorns,

summon up the music of hidden waters flowing close by,
and hold out your hands in a mute and wordless blessing
for the season departed and the cold one on its way,

then craft a poem for the wild places, a net of words
that is soft and untamed, replete with echoes and sighs,
make your words simple and fill them with the wind.

Remember that we all return and flower in our time.

Written for Poetry Thursday.