When the fifth season comes

dressed in flames 

and smoke


the cottongrass bloom,

wild heads waving

like umbrellas.


Have you seen them? 

They think of nothing



as if each stem were a



their damp feet,



tirelessly searching the

shrinking swamps


for the earthen spines

of stones


that like hymnals,

crack open


spilling a light that

still hums


of the sea.

Yurt dweller, parent, partner, writer. Knows some things about medicine, life coaching, teaching, and the wilds.

2 Comment on “Cottongrass

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