The winter rains have ceased,
at least for now,
and rivulets of water
keep leading down the mountain.
I, too, go out –
this longer light, the land
half in, half out of shadow –
to the low place,
where all the water runs together
with leaves of cedar, lichen, moss –
and sound –
the slightest rippling of language
crossing one space for another.
I try the word “distance,” and it knows me –
that place in the forest winter belongs to.
Already it arrives here,
its presence always holding, taking
what is wind and rain-worn with it,
shaping, continually reshaping
what has ended, what begins again.
Words and image by Sarah Rehfeldt. Please do not copy without my permission.
Poem and image published in Blue Heron Review, issue 7 (Winter 2017):