I love the remoteness of it:
of the slowly sagging leggy
deepening breath of birch
beneath a low hanging
gun-metal sky—
a terrain wrapping time in
the ice-soaked stillness of small
movements stitched together
with here and now and here and now.
Beyond, an echo of rustling beech leaves becomes
the opening of a letter with shaky hands, the brown
veined leaves the turning pages of long-awaited news.
Photograph by Alison Deland Scott
Smoky Quartz 