“Even knowing what you love is no salvation”…

Still dark

and the one bird

already singing.

 

I wake. It’s Monday.

Something

weighs the heft of it

 

in one hand,

the tide of sleep

washing out.

 

The waning Paschal moon

casts shadows across

the sunroom floor
You are only trying to say

what you see in the world. Spring.

Winter. Even knowing what you love

is no salvation…”*

 

Even so.

I light the candles,

I begin with poems…

 

-wrensong

 

*from Night Music, Jan Zwicky, Forge

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About wrensong

I am a poet who collects stones. I am a wanderer of creek beds and forests, canyons and high desert who, coming home, sometimes finds words to tell the story. I am a companion with others in the search for Deep, Wild Soul. I shape containers in time and space for others to come together to write, to tell their stories, to hold each other in the telling. I am a grandmother and the companion of a cat named Alaya. I often travel out into open country with a man who calls himself Dunewalker who has hung his hammock in my heart.
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