Sanguine

 

The moose walks into the blowing snow,

unhurried.

Such a steadfast pace,

this sanguine peace

within the gale.

 

Snow gathers on guard hairs.

Adorned, it crosses the clearing,

patiently placing each step,

climbing the drifted slope,

kissing the crusted alders,

loving even the storm.

 

You need not earn this —

the crossing,

the ease in each moment,

in uncertainty.

It has always been yours,

this love for the squall.

 

Every clearing holds this promise —

belonging,

opening to the affinity

in all things.

Possibility thrives in each step.

Grace fans the falling snow.