In the quiet places,
or even among crowds,
when the slant of light
raises eyes toward the horizon,
something in us watches
for promptings from earth, for beckonings
from sinewed limbs of old trees
that pull us rootward
into the archives of being here.
Light breathes through leaves
better than the finest stained glass,
flowers color themselves so deeply
one expects the hues at a touch
to leave a rich talc of reds and yellows
indelible on fingertips.
Halos open and spread toward us
in lakes and slow rivers,
ovations from pebble, insect, fish.
Water - cool and clean -
is still the best quenching,
gold dust on the hills at dusk
the most soothing of lights.
And even in the quietest dawn,
the tented woods try to make us ready,
to bring us to heed,
to bring us to enter
the tremble of aspen
at first light.