A widowed bud bursts her icy veil.
Bitter joy of the flicker crying,
"I alone remain in the kingdom of silence."
Smell of fresh earth from your body.
This is the practice of Winter.
No more mountain tops.
Yearn for the valley.
Listen until you hear listening.
Mother your own heart.
Welcome the sky into your diaphragm,
the moon into your belly, rising, setting,
wolf-gray mist in the ancient cedars of your alveoli.
a lady bug lands like a ruby kiss
between your eyebrows.
This is the practice of Winter.
Through your blood, fatted salmon swim upstream
toward the waterfall of breathing.
Last night's rain snakes down
your switchback trail of vertebrae.
Mud tastes sweet, the syrup of the sun.
Aloneness whispers, “Touch my fern,
my hemlock, the dripping jewel
of my quietness after the shriek
of the fox's desire.”
Hu, Hu... plaint of the snowy owl,
rugged mantra clapping one hand to keep warm,
no dreaming allowed.
This is the practice of Winter.
Wandering wayless off trail.
Take the path of the ordinary,
chosen by deer for its stillness.
Crystal attention, sound of snow,
your open palm so full of stars
you have to find a better word
for emptiness.
Photo from our hike, Mt. Rainier.
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