Dead Cedar

Bloodroot Spears


Week after week

heat, wind, sun,

shrinks vernal pools.

 Ditches are dry.


of wet forest,

 masked gold leaves,

seek shallow depressions

 fed by Spring.

One night the

heat wave breaks

I smell rain,

hear hoarse croaks.

I stand there

swallowing sound

inhaling fragrant air

Lamenting absence –

 so many voices stolen

by drought.


At dawn

two frogs persevered, 

laid a cluster

of eggs –


each other

in prayer.

A week later

 stray snowflakes

pressure earth,


  pale green.

A cluster

of bloodroot spears

 splits ground.

I dream

my Voice is


in a pail

of jellied eggs.

A dead cedar

rots nearby.

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