To feel alive
Setting out
Under ancient oaks, open-handed, reaching
Beneath wind torrents from engines filled with businesswomen and escapists
The quiet reeds, Golden hued in frozen berms
Returning as rays slant, nose reddened
And fingers clenched
A hopeful respite for
unquenchable longing
Listening and stillness to mend the waiting that stretches
the steadfast stand, not without doubt
Searching slips, prayers echoed, questions heralding
Answers loosed
The bird calling across the marsh
