We live in a forest, lover and I,
in a cabin, beside a small, dark lake, filled with music and mystery.
We do what each day demands; cook, clean, chop wood, write poetry or walk the shadowed paths, our steps attuned to the slow song of the deep woods.
At night, we descend into untroubled dreams, as the ‘locals’; black bears, wolves, deer, fleet- footed mice and fat, dusty-pink moths – go about their business – gliding through the dark woods on their secret errands.
At first light, we rise to the chanting of tiny gods; finches, ravens, woodpeckers and warblers, the feathered descendants of dinosaurs, proclaiming their presence, exulting the dawn.
Here, seasons are deep-lived. Spring comes as a promise kept; a lesson for those who have learned to listen; a revolution, a resurrection, an all-night dance party.
Summer is the season of the slow burn, days sigh, the nights simmer thick and warm, and the stars laugh munificently.
In autumn, the forest surrounding our cabin becomes a burning cathedral, an embarrassing parade of gorgeous, a paint chip, drag-queen, death-dance diaspora of colour and song.
Then, winter arrives to bring the festivities to a close, still the land, and rename the world in its image.
But when the great ‘Gathering In’ is over, and spring returns, the green gods rise again. And we will be here, lover and I, to bear witness to the holy beauty.