Speak to me
like the full moon’s clear whispers
to the quiet snow on the forest floor.
We were tight.
And neither will forget
the rambling on and off of paths in the night,
and the confidence born of gentle changes.
We enjoyed the silhouettes of finer things those times,
And learned real warmth
from the inside out.
Your soaring silver circle grew into me
And now shines back out
with the glance and smile of the evergreen,
the willing strength of the oak,
and the patience of the grass
beneath the moonlit snow.
Dancing with the shifting shadows as you pass,
we celebrate substance that will last,
As larger seasons loom,
are,
and recede again.
I am moved.
The trees
have studied my rise to power.
They love me, but are not moved,
except by the rocks they grow upon, that
have studied their rise to power.
Dec. 2003
Transformation by Dialectic 