A fleet of winter flowers
Sails out over the brown ocean

To war. None will come back
But their song is light.


When a thing grows where we think
it shouldn’t, we have misunderstood

Its nature, or the environment
It grew in, or both.


Tell me about the mountain stream,
Cloud chasing cloud like a fleet

Of winter flowers. A song as light
As rain has reached our roots.

5 thoughts on “Groundswell

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