By Barbara Crooker
These are dark times. Rumors of war
rise like smoke in the east. Drought
widens its misery. In the west, glittering towers
collapse in a pillar of ash and dust. Peace,
a small white bird, flies off in the clouds.
And this is the shortest day of the year.
Still, in almost every window,
a single candle burns,
there are tiny white lights
on evergreens and pines,
and the darkness is not complete.
Posted by kind permission of Barbara Crooker
Two loons on a lake in the evening fog, air thick with it, pale water…
Joy, my Life Mystery, my Partner Belonging, my Love Narrowness, my Encounter Fear, my Poison…
Here, where the rivers dredge up the very stone of Heaven, we name its colors—…
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