Of Warmth

The mountain stream

Mounting in extremis;

Grandeur the pinnacled

Light dappling the pines

The needles crossing through

Each other, each becoming

A new pattern for the light

And the shade to beat through

The pulsatile, invidious, and

Piercing light of these days

The trees are huddling:

Branch throwing friction

Against branch

Wind that whistles through

My trance, through the days

Spent in these high places

Now the warm mug is pressed

To my lips, above the teeming

Wildernesss: it's violence becoming

A patterned peace

What is hard in me begins

Softening and unravelling

To the world outside

All that is dark in me is

Uncoiled into tranquility:

And there is no darkness

At all that is not touched

By lignt

I am not just myself I am

The heights and I am the

Wilderness and

I am the

Wind blowing