Mabon

Jerrold Narland

Sparkling frosts
and chevrons of geese
arrive in pungent leaf-smoke visions.
Memories of many past years arise, press.
Perhaps they never happened
or have always happened.
Early chill reluctantly
succumbs to rising warmth
from a lowered sun.
A familiar voice in the morning breeze
sings around the naked willow,
chatters with maples
who respond turning tips
the red and gold of her hair.
She murmurs
of warm hands,
little clouds of sweet breath,
and wears a different face
for each of us.