The Wanderer

Across the ridges, the horizon stretches, Like prayers strung high. Faith is planted in the earth, Flowers brace against fire, They are whispers, forgetting, But the shadows tower high, Where birds tear through lost, white edges. Once, I walked here alone, With voices of the forest, and now, I learn the language of love’s tendrils That stretch into the weeds. Every bright beginning brews, Within nature’s cycle: the sea, the trees. Let this wanderer be free, to fall Into the fold of mountains, And the bloom of dawn.

• Gary Snyder