No more mountain tops.
I yearn for a valley that smells of rain.
I like to touch the sky in dark springs.
So I wander Winter woods,
a lover's breath warming my solitude.
This is my weather, my way
ever vanishing in wolf-gray mist,
a path chosen by deer for its stillness.
Whatever is delicious,
whatever is astounding,
whatever brings tears,
ripens and dies this moment.
I like to touch fern
and hemlock silences,
bejeweled and wildering.
I like to hear the vireo break them
like frail ice.
The practice of Winter requires
no effort.
Simply do not fear the hollow places.
Give thanks for what's left in the gourd,
the gift of withering,
your persimmon cheeks,
your open palms so full of stars
that you must find
another word for emptiness.
Photo: Took this hiking in the rain at Mt. Rainier
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