The moose walks into the blowing snow,


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 —


opening to the affinity

in all things.

Possibility thrives in each step.

Grace fans the falling snow.

Categories: Uncategorized


  1. I love this–and how you see a lesson in the moose’s pace and demeanor. Sometimes I feel like I am the only one who studies nature like a textbook.


  2. Back to reread and savour Sanguine again. I love how all of your poems reward me in rereading. So many layers; so many new meanings depending on the place I read it from.


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