Imbolc, February 2nd

The last thread in her tapestry of loss—
out of the dark— fruit fallen—

tufts, pale, sudden as hope, and
glad water rushes down the gorge.

In a tangle of cottonwood, sweet
hearts plunge fast, gurgle, practice sex,

stagger up the swelling brook where
manzanita reaches out to snag a sleeve.

The only change lovers make
is closeness to their kin.

The final days— their arms around each dying
friend, the trees desire — a natural end.

The flicker sings of sustenance, not doom.
Butterflies sleep in their cocoons.