Dew of Sun All in My Hair

I walked out on the tundra,
to lay down in the moss.
Dew of sun all in my hair;
I contemplate—the loss?
Or is it? Here I am, with brine,
and soot, and spruce, and pine.
For all that is repleting:
boletes and their seedlings.
My prayers go out—
and I receive.
Earth feeds me.

We talk about depreciation.
What about appreciation?
Blood of flower moon,
soon, fireweed will bloom.

Winter curled around me
bare, and I turned within.
Grief that claimed me,
and reframed me,
equal with chagrin.
I asked my heart,
where did you go?
—what should I know?
less than before.

And to my core,
I felt the heat,
refused to die
like coals beneath
sheets of ice
that lay in wait,
for our reckoning.
Yet don't hesitate;
blink and miss.

My heart stayed with me,
yet partly
stayed out on the tundra.
And I within the city:
a muted song of torpor.

Above wood frogs,
on downy fluff,
now solidified
into honey combs of ice,
thusly crystalized.
These shifts of grief,
to contemplate
light and tide
that re-create.

Beneath hoofprints of caribou,
who understand—
beneath the snow, upon the land
the whitest moss,
and cranberries, remain:
for those who know,
but only those who need.