I come in winter to sit
by this icy stream.
Snow whispers through the silence.
Once we shared the peace of this place
with scents of pine and water,
the tang of cold air. Deer came
to drink, taking our stillness for permission.
I return every season. Alone,
I remember small jokes we shared,
poetry we read to one another.
The deer still come, their long-legged,
coltish grace a delight.
Death is a room made of sky
with a door invisible until opened.
You wait for me there.
Pond dammed from the creek.
A lone beaver glides the pond
Three deer taste the water’s edge.
A great owl wings into the woods.
Upstream, still as silence,
a cold-eyed heron waits.
The beaver swims.
The deer drink.
The heron fishes.
Deep in the woods
the owl folds her wings
and sleeps, eyes open.
Colored ribbons wave and ripple
as the prayer wheel spins,
flying on the winds.
A world away in your back yard
these prayers may come to rest.
Walk gently through these dreams
lying in your grass.