Storm of Possibility

It snowed twice already here in Minnesota. My first thought was of the garden. Last Saturday we went out and did more harvesting at 6 a.m. because the temperature was still dropping. Back inside seemed warmer after that work, and the light now showed new beauty. Ah, the season for poets. This morning, warm in bed and cuddling till demands of day, it started pouring through.

Storm of Possibility

We are blest
in this perfect convergence
of nuance at Winter's beginning
starts early this season of change —
a prod to creativity
in Light and Sound
the chill outside my bed.
Forces pull from floating in that peace
or vortex back to unconsciousness
more clear than morning light.

It's a hard choice
but spirits wait
some more patiently than others
for Masters live
in the hearts of dreamers
at that point between
events of relative knowing.

At this cusp of night
as morning calls to winter
a chill warms my place of true attempt.
I love an early snow.
It is a season for poets
to smooth complaints of cold
and crawling thoughts.
Quarantine the old
and clear the mind for Light.
A storm of possibility approaches.

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