Dreary winter light
gray
faded
washed too often
by northwest rains:
clouds
formless
too tired
to grow
into feathery
giant mystical
creatures
we might
imagine
and
name,
sun faint
hidden
by morning
haze,
as slow
to rise
as we
on another
long
formless
day,
but then
past
the chill,
a golden
glimmer
colors
the fir’s
topmost branches
as crow’s
gather
in boisterous flight
announcing
loudly
as they are want to do
that change
has come
now
sooner than later
full on
so they might
groom
in warmth
and banter
into
late afternoon
when
a new moon
in all its
tender
shy
splendor
will rise
forged
above:
a sure emblem
of change
new beginnings
and hope.
Your lost poem was a worthy sacrifice. This poem is divine; a gift; mana.
Thank you dearest sailor
love you