poem

cold shooting stars in a winter night -

fogs in trees and across the mountain ridges -

full moon about to grow through cloud cover,

coming through as if the sun was master

and the tilts and wobbles of its third planet

were all it knew of lightness and of the dark...

druids were unlikely women - still, magic-ing,

we water nymphs laugh under the trees,

while the rains come steady, where snows

are learning more or less to spark crystals... 

and, still, these rains are verdant, welcome-ly, 

and, very, very kind....